Small Steps
by Helen C
Summary: Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.
1. Prologue

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG-13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many thanks to my beta, Joey51.

* * *

**Prologue**

For a long time, Ryan sat on the floor, the gunshot still echoing in his head and Oliver's eyes dancing in front of him, wide with something Ryan couldn't quite identify.

Of all the things he had expected when he had entered the house, **this** had not been one of them.

He felt as if his brain was a gripped engine, refusing to kick into gear. Every time he tried to think about what had happened, his thoughts came to a screeching halt, his whole being rebelling against the consequences of what he had done.

Ryan wondered if this was what shock felt like.

He was paralyzed, unable to move, to do anything about the situation, or even to think logically.

It was like being blindsided by a train, he decided. One minute, he was fine and going about his business, the next he was reeling from the shock, wondering where it had come from and what was happening to him.

Marissa's sobs began to enter his consciousness, the sound irritating him. He caught himself before he could tell her to keep quiet. She had had a shock too; she was entitled to a few tears.

Ryan looked up to see her curled up on her chair, hugging herself, shaking. Then his gaze fell on Oliver's body, on the red liquid spreading on the carpet. He was submerged by such a strong feeling of unreality that he was suddenly sure someone had slipped drugs in his drink earlier, and he was hallucinating dead bodies and blood. With his luck, he'd probably wake up in the loony bin, a disappointed Sandy sitting on the chair next to his bed, and-

"Ryan?"

He looked at Marissa again and shook his head violently, as if that would be enough to clear his mind.

It wasn't.

"What?" he asked.

"Is he?"

She didn't finish her question, and Ryan's eyes returned to Oliver. The blood had stopped spreading. Which meant Oliver had stopped bleeding, because his heart had stopped pumping the blood into his body, and his heart had stopped because-

Again, Ryan felt his brain disconnect itself before it could go further. "_Temporarily out of commission, come back later_." This was growing annoying, he decided.

He forced himself to breathe, to react, to do **something**, anything to get him out of this state of limbo.

Releasing the gun was probably as good a starting point as any, so that's what he did. With slow, careful movements, he put the gun on the floor. Then he rose to his feet, just as slowly and as carefully. Somehow, it would have seemed inappropriate to move more quickly. He swayed, dizzy from the adrenaline. His own heart was still pumping blood all right, and at top speed.

"Marissa?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She was intent on looking anywhere but at the body on the floor. Ryan could sympathize.

He approached her. "It's okay."

She shook her head vehemently. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

There was a pause. Ryan wouldn't have been surprised to learn that life outside had stopped, people frozen in what they were doing when the gun had gone off. But it was only his world that had stopped spinning on its axis when he had pulled the trigger. He wondered what the next days would be like, knowing he had ki- defended himself. The cops would want to talk, certainly, and at the idea of landing back in juvie, his stomach did a summersault.

But he hadn't had a choice. Surely, they didn't put you in jail for ki- for refusing to let someone kill you.

Right?

Ryan shivered. He wondered if he could chalk up his distrust of the cops to atavism - he did, after all, come from a family of criminals.

"Ryan?" Marissa said.

"Hum?" He stood there, at a loss for what to do. He distantly noted that he was supposed to be able to react to crises better than that.

He felt stuck in a bubble, out of time and space, alone with Marissa, a corpse and a gun, and he understood now why there were people who refused to leave the place where they had been held hostage. How could people be expected to face the world outside when their inner world had been so shaken?

Marissa had stopped crying. "You okay?" she asked.

He crossed his arms, shivering. "Yeah." He closed his eyes, and forced himself to look at the situation logically. What should he do? He thought for a few seconds that seemed to last several lifetimes, and then said, "We need to call someone."

"Who?"

He heard the sirens before he had a chance to answer, and sighed. "Never mind."

He tried to prepare himself for what was next, he really did, but when the two cops entered the room, telling Marissa and Ryan to stay still and to keep their hands in sight, he knew that nothing could have ever prepared him for that.


	2. Chapter 1 : The Deed

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter One : The Deed  
**

**One hour earlier  
**

The night hadn't been going so well, Ryan thought.

He had been at a party with Seth. One of Holly's parties - "always interesting, if not necessarily entertaining," Luke had said once. Seth was talking (big surprise there) about Summer. Luke, in town for the Easter Break, was hitting on some girl. Ryan was nursing a beer, half-listening to Seth, half-thinking about his latest physics projects, and why it wasn't working. His new lab partner was competent enough, but she wasn't Lindsay.

When Summer finally joined them and dragged Seth to the dance floor, Ryan took his drink outside and walked on the beach, away from the aggressively loud music.

He couldn't remember why coming to the party had seemed like a good idea - sure, Seth had argued that it would distract him from Lindsay's absence, but really, Ryan should have known better.

And when had he become the kind of person who thought about physics during a **party?** Half the people he knew in Chino would have teased him to death for that.

He shook his head ruefully. That his new found interest in science had coincided with his being partnered with a beautiful girl would have bought him a few points, he admitted. He missed Lindsay more than he had thought he would.

His cell phone began to vibrate at that point of his day-dreaming. He picked up, still thinking about Lindsay - and her smile, and her eyes, and all her other physical attributes. "Yeah?"

There was only silence and short breaths on the other side of the line. Ryan was about to disconnect when he also heard a sob.

He kept his tone even. "Hello?"

"Ryan?"

"Marissa?" he asked.

"I'm sorry. I" Another sob. "He won't let me go."

"Who?"

The line went dead.

Ryan checked the caller ID. She had called from the Cooper-Nichol mansion.

He went in search of Seth, all the while wondering if he should go see Marissa. After all, they weren't dating anymore, his practical side pointed out. He didn't **have** to go see her when she called.

But they were friends, the white-knight in him retorted. Impossible as it may have seemed six months ago, they were even on the verge of becoming good friends.

She sounded drunk, Mister Practical said. Ryan had promised himself he wouldn't clean up her messes anymore. He had done that for too long, for too many people.

She sounded upset, Mister Knight said. He didn't know if she was drunk. She may actually have a real problem.

Then why didn't she call someone else? Mister Practical asked.

Who? Mister Knight asked. Jimmy was in Hawaii, Julie was a bitch, Caleb was out of town, and Marissa's friends were not what one might call dependable.

Mister Practical shut up just as Ryan found Seth, and asked him for the keys to the car.

Mister Practical may have become more vocal than he had been two years ago, but he almost never won against Mister Knight. He put up a better fight than he used to, though, Ryan had to admit. He had the voice of Sandy Cohen, and Ryan was sure he would learn to follow that voice soon, instead of just listening to it.

He'd never tell Sandy any of that, though.

The man would become unbearable if he ever knew.

-8888-

Ryan sighed inwardly as he approached the house. He remembered a TV show Seth had forced him to watch, where vampires seemed to hit a barrier when they tried to enter a house where they hadn't been invited. He wasn't Julie or Caleb's favorite person, and it amused Ryan to imagine himself forced to stay outside their house, like a vampire.

The door was ajar, and he hesitated briefly before pushing it open all the way and entering.

"Marissa?" he called.

His voice echoed in the house. He grimaced. Why these people insisted on living in gigantic mansions where eighty percent of the rooms stayed unoccupied, was beyond him. They never even had guests, since hospitality and kindness were not high on their list of priorities - with the exception of the Cohens, naturally.

"Marissa?"

Her muffled voice came from the second floor. "In here!"

At that point, a bad feeling was beginning to settle in his gut. Why wasn't she coming? Why wasn't she at least showing herself?

He took another two steps in before stopping. It never paid to ignore his gut feelings. He knew that, had learned that early in his life.

"Are you hurt?" he asked hesitantly.

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Can you come up?" Her voice broke.

Ryan considered calling 911 then. He truly did. Mister Practical was begging him to do just that, then to go wait in the car. But he was a teenager who, one month earlier, was still on probation, in a house that wasn't his, and he wasn't even sure what was wrong. For all he knew, Marissa had broken a nail. Or chemically created a new species of alcohol and decided to celebrate.

He took another step in, breathed deeply, and climbed the steps.

His gut feeling grew stronger with each step, but he went on.

"Marissa?" he called on the landing.

"Third door to your right!" she yelled.

"Why don't you come out now?" he asked.

After a brief silence, the third door on his right opened. Marissa stepped out. She was disheveled, dressed for a party, and there were tear tracks on her face. She was followed by a gun. The gun was held by Oliver.

Ryan took a brief moment to apologize to Mister Practical for not listening to him, to mentally kick himself for not calling the cops, and to curse whoever had decided Oliver was now capable of becoming a productive member of society.

Then the gun went from Marissa's back to Ryan's head, and he stopped thinking.

-8888-

"Ryan. I thought a lot about you," Oliver was saying, pacing the length of Marissa's room. He had ordered Ryan in, and Marissa had followed. Ryan had half expected her to do something, like jump on Oliver to distract him, but she hadn't. And really, when he thought about Donnie and the stray bullet lodging itself in Luke's arm, perhaps keeping quiet wasn't such a bad idea.

Ryan was sitting on the bed, Marissa at her desk, and Oliver was keeping a careful eye on both of them.

He was thinner than the last time Ryan had seen him. He was also a lot more twitchy. Ryan wondered if he had taken any drugs - at this point, it seemed more than likely.

To Ryan's eyes, Oliver had always seemed off balance with the rest of humanity - it had been so obvious to him that he hadn't understood why no one else could see it.

Now, Oliver didn't even seem in synch with the universe - being in his presence gave Ryan the impression of standing on the edge of a black, bottomless pit.

"Creepy," Seth would have said, and Ryan would have agreed wholeheartedly.

"You're the one who convinced me that life would give me a second chance, aren't you?" Oliver went on.

There was a silence. When he was sure that the question hadn't been rhetorical, Ryan said, "Yes." His voice sounded strange - metallic, flat. He bit back a grimace.

Oliver shook his head, still aiming his gun at Ryan. "Where the fuck is my second chance?" he yelled, and Ryan jumped slightly. "They said I was better, but how could I be better without Marissa?"

Marissa was biting her bottom lip, teary-eyed. Ryan felt a surge of weariness. Sometimes, he wished he could count on people to have his back in these situations. He didn't blame Marissa for her upbringing, for not knowing how to keep herself together under pressure, but really, a little help would have been appreciated. He was tired of being alone each time he faced down lunatics.

He knew Sandy and Kirsten would happily take his place right now - a certainty that made him feel slightly better. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, but knowing someone wanted to keep him safe at all costs and would lay their life on the line for him was priceless. However, fate seemed to want to make certain that he would always be alone in these situations.

And now wasn't a good time to get lost in his thoughts, he reminded himself. He'd whine about the unfairness of life later. At length.

Oliver prattled on about his love for Marissa, her apparent indifference, how they were meant to be together, waving the gun around all the while. Then he put a hand behind his back, and when it reappeared, it was holding a ten-inch kitchen knife.

Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the knife, distantly noting that Marissa had also paled.

Oliver watched Ryan with a smirk, then snapped. "You're still the one she calls."

Marissa tried to intervene. "We're not together anymore, Oliver. I promise."

Ryan added, a little bitterly, "We never really got back together after you."

When Oliver yelled this time, it was full force. "THEN WHY THE FUCK DID SHE CALL YOU?"

Marissa whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I can't think," Oliver announced, and he used the knife to cut a fine line on his arm.

Ryan swallowed back a wave of nausea at the sight of the blood.

Oliver watched the blood flow for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "Why, honey?" he asked Marissa. "Why did you call him? You promised me we'd talk. Calmly. Alone."

"You were scaring me," she said, her voice shaking. "You're scaring me now."

"I'm sorry, baby. Everything will be better soon."

He put the knife on the desk, went to her and touched her hair. She flinched back and his face hardened. "I'm sorry," she said.

He softened. "That's okay. We have time. All the time in the world."

Ryan didn't like the sound of that. Judging from the look on her face, neither did Marissa.

Oliver kept his gun aimed at Ryan while patiently explaining that he loved her, and they had to be together. He had come back for her; everyone wanted to keep them apart. "Don't you love me?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said, her eyes never straying from the gun pointed at Ryan.

"Good. All the time in the world."

He began pacing again, and Marissa looked at Ryan helplessly. Oliver picked up the knife, and ran it on his arm again. The line seemed deeper this time. Ryan wondered when he had begun to hurt himself, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

This time, Oliver dropped the knife on the ground when he was finished, as if tossing aside a used Kleenex.

"You're not trying to convince me to calm down, that I'll have another chance?" Oliver asked Ryan.

"Would there be a point?"

Oliver laughed, and Ryan flinched at the high-pitched sound. "Perhaps you're not as thick as I thought," Oliver acknowledged. "I can't live without her, you see."

"You've said that already."

"I thought I would be able to, but I wasn't. And she loves me too. She missed me."

For the life of him, Ryan couldn't figure out how to talk to someone so vastly out of touch with reality that he thought the tears on Marissa's face were out of love, rather than fear.

Oliver, still oblivious, went from quiet conviction to anger. "They told me it was all in my head. But you heard her, didn't you? She said it, right here."

Ryan refrained from pointing out that Marissa had just been trying not to upset the lunatic with the gun. Now wasn't the time to play the bad-ass.

"I'm not sure what I'll do with you yet," Oliver said. "But the two of usI love her so much. And we need each other. She's not happy without me, and I can't live without her."

He tilted his head, as if listening to something, and pointed the gun toward himself, looking into the barrel, an expression of wonder on his face. "Such a simple way to get what I want," he said.

Ryan took the chance. Oliver was way past reasoning. For the first time, he wasn't pointing the weapon at Ryan or Marissa. Things wouldn't get any better than this tonight.

Ryan jumped up and tackled Oliver, grabbing the arm that held the gun, relieved when no shot was heard. They landed on the ground in a heap. Then Ryan realized the gun was trapped between the two of them, and that Oliver was still holding on to it. Ryan hesitated for a moment. Oliver saw it, and rolled Ryan over so that he'd be on top of him. They were still on the floor, still holding on to that damn gun, and Ryan was getting desperate. He had always believed that insane people were stronger than average, but now that assumption was being verified.

He would have lived happily ever after without the verification.

Their fingers were intertwined around the weapon, and Ryan tried to focus on what he was doing. He needed to make Oliver lose his grasp on the gun. Soon.

There was no sound other than their ragged breathing and Marissa's sobs in the room. Ryan almost sighed in annoyance - couldn't she just grab a blunt object and knock Oliver out?

His hands were sweaty, slipping. And he was definitely in a bad position

At some point, he heard the distinctive click of the magazine being armed, and if that sound didn't seem like much on TV or in the movies, in this room it was deafening.

Desperate, Ryan twisted Oliver's right wrist, narrowly avoiding the left one when it headed toward his own face. Oliver yelped in pain and let go of the gun. Ryan punched him in the stomach, pushing him back. Oliver landed on his ass and scrambled backward as Ryan sat up, breathless, taking possession of the gun.

Oliver pushed himself up on all four, and grappled around on the floor. Suddenly, he whirled on Ryan, who caught a glimpse of the bloodied knife heading straight for him.

He reflexively raised his arm, his finger found the trigger and he pulled it.

-8888-

Marissa and Ryan were sitting in the living room. It was perfectly fitting, Ryan thought, that he was handcuffed and Marissa was huddled in a blanket, on the other side of the room. The bad boy and the defenseless princess - fucking story of his life.

She was sobbing, repeating that she was sorry.

Ryan stared ahead, trying to think of anything but the feeling of the cold metal against his wrists. He had hoped he'd never have to feel that again. What was it he had said to Sandy during their first meeting? That having a dream didn't make you smart, but knowing it wouldn't come true did. "_You should have known better, Atwood_," he thought.

One little hour earlier, he was listening to Seth complain about his usual girlfriend troubles.

Now he was in the hands of the police again, his thoughts foggy, his stomach painfully knotted, feeling cold and apprehensive.

One of the cops approached them. "We need to drive you to the station," he said. He was the one who had entered Marissa's room first. A forty-something, seasoned cop, whose name Ryan hadn't caught - Peterson, or possibly Petersen.

Marissa sniffed and nodded. Then her gaze fell on Ryan, and for the first time since she had stepped out of her room, she seemed to be thinking clearly. "Why is he handcuffed?" she asked.

"Procedure, miss."

She frowned a little. "But he didn't do anything."

"Actually, he admitted he killed the young man in your room."

Ryan clenched his jaw. When the cops had asked what had happened, Ryan had blurted it out. He still couldn't believe he had done that. And granted, when what he had done had registered, he had rushed on to say that he had been defending himself, but he had been quickly silenced, and the younger of the cops had read him his rights.

After which all that had come out of Ryan's mouth had been Sandy's name and number, and his own name.

"He didn't have a choice!" Marissa exclaimed.

Peterson looked at her dubiously, but she insisted. "Oliver had the gun when he came by. I called Ryan to help. Oliver threatened us both. He was rushing Ryan with a knife." She swallowed. "I think I'm going to be sick." She leaned over and proceeded to throw up on a ridiculously expensive rug.

Peterson had stayed with them from the beginning, until hordes of his colleagues arrived and began to take pictures and measurements upstairs. Ryan felt a little reassured by the man's calm. He had met too many young cops, eager to get a promotion, or rough with the suspects - huge partisans of the "guilty until proven innocent" philosophy.

Peterson was now looking at him less suspiciously, and Ryan had the feeling that he had just gone from "potential murderer" to "potential victim." The cop helped him up, and a female officer came to clean up the mess and help Marissa to the car.

Outside, Ryan blinked in the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars. Cops were rushing around. The flurry of movement and the loud voices assaulted Ryan's senses, making him wince. This brutal return to reality was jarring.

Ryan had known that the world outside wouldn't stop existing to accommodate him, but as the car headed to the police station, he wished it did.

Dreams don't often come true, though. The world kept on spinning, and the night continued.


	3. Chapter 2 : The Police Station

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 2 : The Police Station  
**

Sandy was not a violent man by any means. He had always, even in his "wilder" days, preferred to fight with his words rather than his fists. Violence resolved nothing. In fact, it usually only worsened any given situation, instead of resolving it.

Sandy was a patient man. He was soft-spoken, he tried to find the humor in life, and he had never lost his idealism, even after all these years spent among the rich, superficial, selfish people of Newport.

Sandy was a lawyer-he talked for a living. Seth had told him once that only therapists talked more than lawyers. Ryan had corrected him; therapists listened while their patients talked, but didn't say much themselves. "No," Ryan had said. "No one speaks more than lawyers." Sandy had heard a muffled, "Except their sons, apparently." Oblivious, Seth had gone off on another tangent and the subject had been forgotten.

But above all else, Sandy was a father. One who would do anything, absolutely anything, to protect his family. Sure, he would love, and protect, and educate, and nurture. He would also die for his family if need be. And he would kill, he would beat up, he would corrupt to keep them safe.

Tonight, however, Sandy's legendary tolerance was wearing thin. His conversational skills were out the window. Tonight, he could see the appeal Ryan found in punching either things or people.

There had been two calls from Officer Peterson-the first one to tell Sandy that Ryan was being driven to the police station. Sandy had heard a brief summary of the situation then-something along the lines of, "Oliver free. Marissa threatened. Ryan phone call. Gun. Oliver dead. Ryan police station." And already, he had wanted the head of whoever had decided to set Oliver free. Hadn't they read the reports saying Oliver was more than able to manipulate people, from a perturbed young girl to the headmistress of a private school?

The second phone call had come fifteen minutes later, as Sandy was driving on the freeway. By then, Officer Peterson seemed to have realized what Sandy had known all along-that Ryan could only have killed Oliver in self-defense.

As soon as Sandy had understood that, in all likelihood, Ryan wouldn't need his professional skills, the lawyer in him had taken a backseat and the father had taken the wheel.

Sandy found himself at the police station without remembering driving there. He could find comfort in the fact that he hadn't had to rush to the hospital. At least the kids weren't hurt. That was a Good Thing.

Definitely.

On autopilot, Sandy went through the doors, headed to the front desk and said, "Ryan Atwood?"

A police officer, a woman with dark hair and tired eyes, looked at him. "Excuse me?"

Sandy gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that she probably saw frantic parents every night, that she was doing a useful job, that she was overworked and underpaid, and that screaming at her wouldn't bring him to Ryan sooner.

"An officer Peterson called me. He said that my foster son, Ryan Atwood, was here." He paused, took a breath, and used all his willpower to ask in clipped tones, rather than yell, "Where. Is. He?" Belatedly, he remembered to add, "Please."

She took her phone, asked for the officer, and after a few hours-just enough time to prepare and launch a space rocket, in Sandy's estimate-an officer approached him.

"Mister Cohen?"

"Officer Peterson?"

They shook hands, and the man guided Sandy through a sea of desks. "We're almost finished with his deposition. It fits with what Miss Cooper told us. When we're done, there'll just be a few papers to sign."

"How are they?"

"Once Miss Cooper was done with her deposition, she got sick again. We called paramedics; they took her to the hospital." Sandy must have looked worried, and Peterson hurried to add, "It's just shock. They'll give her something to sleep. Her mother is on her way to the hospital."

"Ryan?"

The man stopped walking and looked at him compassionately. "He's shocked too. Hanging on. We checked his antecedents."

Sandy called on his inner-lawyer. "His probation is over," he said.

"And he was arrested for stealing a car, not killing people. I know that, Mister Cohen. You have to understand" He trailed off, studying Sandy for a moment. When the officer went on, it was in a soothing voice. Perhaps, Sandy thought, he was scared to see the rich lawyer suing his ass. "As soon as we entered the room," Peterson said, "Ryan told us he had killed Oliver Trask. We read him his rights, and we waited for reinforcements. When our colleagues arrived, we came here. By that time, Miss Cooper had somewhat recovered and she's the one who told us that Ryan had only been defending himself. Ryan himself didn't speak."

Sandy clenched his fist-he could picture the whole scene very clearly. He hated to think about what must have gone through Ryan's head.

"We didn't book him in," Peterson added. "We took Miss Cooper's deposition first, to check that it was, indeed, self-defense."

Sandy understood and nodded gratefully. By all rights, the cops could have placed Ryan under arrest, booked him in, put him in a holding cell and waited for Sandy to arrive. At that point, with Ryan's antecedents, they would have had to wait for a judge to get Ryan out. And it was Friday night. Ryan would have spent the weekend, at least, in lock up. "Thanks," Sandy said.

Peterson smiled slightly. "He's had a bad night already," he said. "We just didn't act too fast. Just in case."

Sandy nodded again.

"We'll ask him to stay in town until the case is closed," Peterson added. "We may need to see him again to ask a few more questions when he's had some time to pull himself together, but I don't think there'll be a problem. Mister Trask was holding a knife."

Sandy gulped. "A knife?"

"Yes." The man hesitated, then added, "I've seen murderers, Mister Cohen, and Ryan, from what I can tell after talking with him for a few minutes, doesn't seem like one."

Sandy thought about Ryan's propensity to put himself in danger to help others, about his uncanny ability to get either on the wrong side of people, or on the good side, but always immediately. He wondered if there was a word to name the total opposite of a murderer. "He's not."

The man nodded, even though he must have heard this kind of denegation every day, several times a day. He led Sandy to a desk at the back of the room.

Ryan was sitting on a chair, eyes downcast. He was talking to a young policeman who was asking questions and typing Ryan's answers.

Sandy took a good look at Ryan and was surprised by the sudden, violent urge to seek retribution against whoever was responsible for the situation. Oliver was already dead, but certainly, there were other people to blame-Oliver's psychiatrists or his absent parents, for example. All Sandy was asking for was five minutes with someone who had been close to the kid, so that he could yell at them and ask them what they were doing while Oliver was attacking Ryan with a knife.

Studying Ryan's body language had become habit very early in their relationship. Ryan often said more with the way he carried himself than with words.

Kirsten and he had often marveled at the difference between Seth and Ryan-one who said everything with his mouth, and seemed to move uncontrollably, and the other, who comparatively said little but whose movements were always calculated.

Ryan's body spoke volumes tonight.

Sandy had seen Ryan scared before, on several occasions-most noticeably in prison. He had seen him lost, betrayed, confused, angry, hopeful, disappointed, and sometimes all of the above at the same time.

He didn't think he had ever seen Ryan as withdrawn as right now, though.

What Ryan didn't say was often more important than what he did say. While Sandy could hear Ryan say, "We were fighting for the gun, because I was sure he was going to shoot us," he also picked up the underlying, "Am I going back to jail now?"

It was in the way Ryan was staring at the table, in the way his fists were clenched on his thighs, in the way he sat hunched over, in the way his breathing was fast, as if he had been running instead of sitting.

The young officer raised his head and saw Sandy standing there with his colleague. "Sir?"

"Sandy Cohen," he said curtly, his eyes never leaving Ryan.

Ryan finally looked up and watched Sandy briefly before looking away.

Sandy recognized the movement. He had seen it often enough at the beginning, when Ryan didn't trust anyone and was always sizing up the mood of his new guardians before speaking. He had hoped he'd never see that look again. Yet another thing he could thank Oliver for, he thought grimly.

He took two steps toward the chair Ryan was sitting on, seeing the teenager tense slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked in his most neutral voice.

The answer was automatic. "Fine."

He asked again, as if Ryan hadn't answered, "Are you okay?"

Ryan looked at him then, studied him for a long moment. Sandy felt like a new physics experiment that refused to give the expected results under that gaze. Whatever Ryan saw on Sandy's face made him relax a notch. "Headache," he admitted.

Sandy looked at the cops. Or maybe glared. A little.

It worked.

The youngest detective got to his feet and went away, coming back a minute later with a glass of water and two Tylenols. He handed them to Ryan, who looked at the pills as if he had never seen a headache remedy before. Sandy said softly, "Ryan?"

The boy shook himself and took the proffered pills, swallowing them dry before draining the glass of water. "Thanks," he said.

Sandy took a chair next to Ryan, put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed softly. After a while, he felt Ryan relax a little.

"We're almost done here," the young cop said.

Sandy saw Ryan shiver and rub his left wrist. "Good," Sandy said neutrally. "Then why don't we finish so I can take Ryan home?"

Ryan froze, not looking at anyone. The young cop said cheerfully, "Sure." Ryan looked briefly at Sandy as if to confirm that he was, indeed, going home, before nodding and turning his attention back to the cop.

Sandy leaned back, put a hand on Ryan's arm and let them talk.

8888

The end of the deposition and the few papers to sign took them one more hour. When it was finally done, Sandy had absorbed the fact that Ryan was still alive and kicking-well, alive and subdued, but they would just have to work on that.

He had allowed himself to relax a little-no more tragedies would strike tonight. As he led an exhausted Ryan to the car, Sandy fumbled in his pocket for his phone.

"I'll call Kirsten; tell her we're on the way," he announced.

Ryan nodded, climbed in the car and put his seatbelt on.

Sandy made his call, reassuring Kirsten, never taking his eyes off Ryan. At some point, as he was saying again that, yes, they would be there in under a half hour, he saw Ryan's fists slowly begin to unclench; now that they were out of the police station, he must have realized that no one was keeping him there.

"How is he?" Kirsten asked.

Sandy hesitated, stumped. Aside from the "still breathing" factor, and the fear that seemed to radiate from Ryan, he hadn't really considered it.

"He's in shock, I think," he said. "He answered the cop's questions, but we didn't really have time to talk."

"Drive carefully," Kirsten said after a short silence.

"Always," Sandy said. She didn't need to know that he could very well have run all the red lights between home and here when he had come, for all he remembered.

8888

The drive home was mostly silent. Not that Sandy had expected anything else.

He was watching the road, and sneaking a few glances at Ryan from time to time.

Ryan seemed to be sleeping, his head resting on the window, and Sandy thought that sleep was about the only thing that made Ryan look his own age, instead of twenty-five.

Even after eighteen months, Ryan remained an enigma.

Oh, sure, there were obvious truths. Ryan always tried to protect those he held dear, or those he considered defenseless. He wasn't above playing dirty, but generally regretted having done so. He judged people on who they were, not what they owned or what other people thought about them. Ryan had a bit of a white-knight complex, and felt undeserving of love and attention-although Sandy felt hopeful that in this area, at least, they were making progress. Ryan hoped for the best and prepared for the worst, most times without even realizing he was doing it.

Ryan was good at evaluating people-who represented a danger to him, when was it safe to talk and when should he be quiet. Sandy knew it broke Kirsten's heart when she saw that side of Ryan, because no seventeen year old should be **that** good at reading people, that ready to protect himself.

Most of this, however, Sandy already knew or suspected after the first two weeks Ryan had spent with them. He may have learned a few other odd things-Ryan loved to give but didn't know how to gracefully accept a gift, didn't have anything against math and physics, profoundly hated the jock mentality and was a natural at video games-but on Ryan's life before he came to live with the Cohens, Sandy knew little, and on what his life was like in Fresno, virtually nothing.

Sandy had grown better at guessing when it was okay to push Ryan to talk and when he should back off, and until now, the back off signs had never disappeared where Ryan's past was concerned.

Things had been more relaxed since Ryan had come back from Chino in the fall. He seemed more certain of his place with them than he had been before.

A teenage pregnancy was always a nightmare for all concerned. No one ever said so, but everyone knew that some people just kicked their children out when it happened. Sandy had the feeling that the fact that the Cohens hadn't turned their backs on Ryan had confirmed what the kid already suspected; that no matter how bad things were, he was part of the family for the long haul. No matter what Julie Cooper or Caleb "He-Who-Is-An-Ass" Nichol said, Ryan was a Cohen, by choice if not by blood.

Ryan had been more relaxed around them, and it didn't feel like such a chore anymore to make him participate in family conversations.

In a way, it was lucky that**this** had happened now, instead of one year ago. If it had to happen at all, at least Ryan now knew he could turn to them-knew it in his heart, not only in his head.

"Pull over," Ryan said suddenly, his voice strained.

Sandy, startled out of his reverie, took a moment to process. "What?"

"Pull over!" Ryan yelled.

Sandy did so, and Ryan rushed out of the car, leaned a hand on the trunk and was violently sick. Sandy turned the key in the ignition, silencing the car, and tried not to grimace at the sounds of retching coming from outside.

He stayed where he was, pondering his options, as he so often did with Ryan whenever there was a crisis-even now.

A sick Seth wanted attention and pity. A sick Ryan wanted to be left the hell alone, thank-you-very-much. Sandy and Kirsten had always respected that side of him, at first because they were afraid Ryan would balk at too much attention, then because it had just become a Ryan trait.

This time, Sandy hesitated, torn again between the need to help and the wish to respect whatever boundaries Ryan set.

He watched Ryan in the rearview mirror, and made a decision when he saw him straighten up and waver. Sandy got out of the car, joined Ryan and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him. "Okay?"

Ryan nodded, eyes closed.

"Ryan"

"Is there water in the car?"

"Oh. I think so." Sandy had to look for a while, but finally found a half-full bottle under the driver's seat. He automatically smelled it before handing it to Ryan, to make sure it hadn't gone stale; who knew when the bottle had been open? Sandy certainly didn't remember.

Ryan showed a brief smile. "Of all the things to worry about tonight," he said at Sandy's inquisitive look.

Sandy shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know the relationship we townspeople have with bottled water."

Ryan drank and leaned on the back door, closing his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Why do I have a feeling I'm going to hear that a lot in the next few days?"

Sandy smiled. "You know the relationship we Cohens have with the spoken words."

Ryan's smile widened.

"And you didn't answer."

"I don't know," Ryan said, his smile fading. He left the car's support and went to his seat. "Can we go?"

Sandy sighed. "Yeah."

Only ten minutes later, as they were pulling up in front of the house, Sandy decided he needed to say something. Ryan had closed his eyes again, and Sandy wondered briefly what he was seeing behind those closed eyelids.

"Ryan?"

Ryan turned to him, opening his eyes with effort.

Sandy wondered if he should wait, unsure how much Ryan would be able to process tonight. But he supposed that he could always repeat it tomorrow. In fact, he could repeat it as often as needed.

"I just wanted to say, you're not going to have to deal with this alone. We're here."

Something flashed in Ryan's eyes then was gone, too quickly for Sandy to interpret. "Yeah," he said.

"Now, I think the lady of the manor wants to see you." Sandy stepped out, and waited for Ryan to join him. "I think you should be prepared for a bone-crushing hug."

Sandy was rewarded by a small smile at that. Encouraged, he added, "You know the relationship we Cohens have with physical displays of affection."


	4. Chapter 3 : The Return

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter Three : The Return  
**

Predictably, Kirsten was waiting for them in the kitchen when they entered.

Sandy dropped the keys on the table, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and turned back to look at his wife, who was studying Ryan. She had been frantic when Sandy had been called- the worst kind of call for parents, one coming from the police.

No, scratch that. The worst kind of call would have come from a hospital. Good Thing, Sandy reminded himself. The worst hadn't happened tonight.

Sure, they had a traumatized teenager to deal with, and one who was dangerously good at keeping things to himself in the best circumstances, but trauma was fixable.

Like himself earlier, Kirsten looked torn between the need to comfort Ryan (and herself) by hugging him, and the wish to respect Ryan's boundaries. The need for comfort was stronger, and she walked to him, took him in her arms and held on for dear life.

Sandy watched as Ryan froze, and then relaxed a little. "'m fine," he mumbled.

"I know." She was smiling a little, not letting go. "Indulge an old woman for a minute, will you?"

He nodded slightly.

Sandy took a brief moment to thank the sky again for allowing it to happen now, when Ryan at least accepted their affection.

8888

Ryan entered the poolhouse and looked around him, trying to focus. "_Take a shower,_" Sandy had suggested. "_It'll help._"

Ryan privately wondered what difference it could possibly make. It wouldn't erase the night from his memory.

The sight of Oliver's eyes, growing impossibly large when the bullet had entered his body, kept dancing through Ryan's mind, preventing him from absorbing anything else. He vaguely remembered the cops, first dubious, then more convinced that he hadn't deliberately ki- done that, vaguely remembered Sandy arriving at the police station, the strong wave of relief that had washed through him, quickly followed by this numbness again.

He remembered the numbness from before- every time things went really bad in Chino, every time AJ used him as punching back, every time his mother was so wasted she didn't even recognize him, he felt like that. Stunned. Anaesthetized. Numb. It was his way of coping when emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It gave him time, usually, to put himself back together, to begin thinking again, instead of just reacting.

His stomach rebelled again. Ryan rushed to the bathroom, barely making it in time to throw up for a few torturous minutes.

Once he was done, he flushed the toilet and sat on the floor.

Who was he kidding?

It had never been this bad- not even with AJ, not even when his father had been arrested, not when he had been arrested, not even the first time Oliver had wreaked havoc in his life before being taken away.

He had never felt so sluggish, so unable to think five minutes ahead, let alone several hours, or days. Never felt so… pole-axed. As if the world would never be the same again, and he would never be the same again.

He sat on the floor, and waited. For the nausea to come back, or for the feelings to return.

Oliver had seemed surprised when he had heard the shot. Just before it registered that he had been the one to be hit.

The nausea came back first.

8888

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Kirsten asked, "Do you think he's going to be all right?"

Sandy didn't answer. He was watching the poolhouse, waiting to see if Ryan would emerge from the bathroom soon.

"Sandy?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

"He seemed… I don't know."

"In shock," Sandy said absently.

"Yes."

"He is, I suppose."

"Sandy, what happened?"

He turned to face her. He'd need to call the cops to get he full, unabridged story, tomorrow. For now, he would have to make do with a summary.

When he was done, Kirsten was sitting on a stool, staring at her hands. "When was Oliver released from the hospital?"

"I'm sure it's something the police will check tomorrow."

She rubbed her eyes. "Yes." She shook her head. "I should call Julie; see if Marissa is fine."

"Good idea."

They fell silent.

"As if last time hadn't been enough," Kirsten muttered.

Sandy agreed. "I don't know what to tell him," he said.

"Do you think he would hear anything tonight? From what I saw, I doubt it."

"I know," Sandy said. "But, well, even tomorrow, what are we going to tell him? That he shouldn't feel too bad? It's Ryan we're talking about. He does guilt like a true Cohen."

She snorted- an unusual sound for her.

Sandy went on. "That I'm glad it's not him who's in the morgue right now? I doubt that would help."

"No. Probably not."

"Even though I feel that way," he admitted, "I don't like it. In fact, it's horrible, but I'm glad it's someone else's son who's dead. No parent should ever have to live that."

Kirsten went to him and hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Me too." He squeezed her, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. "We're parents," she added.

"So help us, Jesus and Moses," Sandy said.

She sighed.

8888

The nausea finally receded. Not that he had anything left to throw up.

Ryan rose to his feet and slowly took off his clothes, wondering whether burning them would be too cliché, too dramatic. He ran the shower and stepped under the spray, tensing when the cold water hit his body, then relaxing as it warmed up. He stood still under the spray, eyes closed, feeling the water run down on his body.

He remembered reading stories in which a shower helped a character to rid himself of something bad, as if the water took his problems away when it ran down the drain.

He wished it could be that simple.

He wished a shower could make him forget this night, could make him feel normal again.

Barring that, he wished it could help him to snap out of it, could help him to wake up.

It didn't.

8888

Sandy entered the poolhouse to find Ryan standing near the bed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking at the bed as if he had never seen it before and was wondering how to use it.

"Ryan?"

"Yeah?" he asked absently.

Sandy carefully put a hand on his shoulder, relieved when Ryan didn't tense, and made him turn around. "You should sleep," Sandy said.

"I know."

Ryan still looked dazed, even more so than earlier tonight.

On impulse, Sandy put his arms on Ryan's shoulders, dragged him close and hugged him. For a while, they stayed there in silence. Ryan finally said, still in this eerie, detached tone, "I'm kinda…stuck."

"Stuck?" Sandy asked.

"I keep… I can't…" He breathed in deeply, but Sandy didn't let go. If nothing else, he squeezed harder, and stroked Ryan's damp hair a little. "I keep seeing his face. I can't…think, or focus. I'm…" he trailed off.

Sandy nodded and let him go. "Stuck?" he repeated.

Ryan nodded.

"It'll get better." He could have slapped himself for not having thought of anything better to say, but Ryan didn't seem to mind.

"Hum," he said, sitting down on the bed heavily, watching Sandy. Ryan's face was as inscrutable as it had ever been. He tilted his head, considering Sandy. "I'm also slightly-" He stopped, unsure. Sandy waited patiently. "Stunned," Ryan finished after a while. "Numb."

Sandy nodded. "Adrenaline wearing off," he guessed. "And shock." Intense fear, especially prolonged, could be really draining. He had heard about the phenomenon often enough in his job.

Ryan shrugged.

"Sleeping would probably help," Sandy offered.

He stayed there while Ryan pulled away the covers and lowered himself on the bed, curling up, his slow movements alarming Sandy. He was sure it was nothing more than the consequence of spending about three hours constantly terrified, but it was still unnerving to see Ryan so listless.

When Ryan closed his eyes, Sandy sat on the bed next to him. Ryan didn't comment, didn't move anymore, and it was only ten minutes later, when his breathing became slower, that Sandy realized the kid had fallen asleep.

Sandy rose to his feet, careful not to disturb Ryan, and sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, as silently as possible. A movement near the door attracted his attention, and Kirsten smiled at him, crossed over to hand him a cup of coffee, kissed him and went back to the main house.

Sandy turned off the lights and sat in the dark, sipping his coffee, settling in for the long haul.

* * *

Thanks for all the nice reviews ! 


	5. Chapter 4 : The Next Morning

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 4 : The Next Morning  
**

Ryan sat up in bed, gasping, his heart pounding wildly. For a few moments, he couldn't remember why he felt so shaken. Then the memories from last night came back and he curled up under the covers.

Sandy had said that things would look different in the morning, and indeed, they did.

For one thing, Ryan didn't feel completely disconnected from the normal flow of things anymore. Now, he merely felt **slightly** out of phase with the universe. And he just had to stop watching those sci-fi shows if "out of phase" spontaneously came to mind to describe how he felt.

Everything seemed normal around him; the bed was at the same place it had always been, all his clothes and school things were where he had left them last night and an unfinished book lay open on the counter. It was unfair, Ryan decided, to feel so unbalanced when everything else seemed peaceful and safe.

Apparently, sleep had been just what he needed. His brain had kicked back into gear and he could now string two coherent thoughts together.

Spotting an empty mug near a chair, he wondered if Sandy had spent the night there. Ryan's memories of what had happened after he had taken a shower were hazy, but he was almost sure Sandy had helped him into bed.

Ryan grimaced, feeling both embarrassed and grateful. He was always surprised when the Cohens demonstrated just how much they cared, and he sometimes wondered if he would ever get used to it.

Shaking himself, he went to the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and was taken aback at how normal he looked. It was exactly the same face in the mirror as yesterday. He seemed more tired, certainly, but all in all, his appearance didn't reflect his jumbled feelings.

Ryan touched his face's outline on the mirror, half expecting to see it dissolve and reveal another face, one that would reflect how he felt - lost, tired, and scared in a general, indefinable way.

The face in the mirror kept looking back at him, unchanged.

He turned his back to his reflection.

It struck him as odd that he would look the same as he always had. He had crossed a line last night, a line he would never be able to cross back. There was no way to undo a death; no apology or remorse was enough. There was nothing he could do to make it better.

He didn't want to consider the implications of last night yet, but he felt like he had left a piece of himself behind - as in, on the other side of the damn line.

The one that was impossible to cross back.

He looked at his reflection again. The expression on his face didn't convey the loss he felt.

He looked put-together. He felt anything but.

Functional, yes. More coherent than last night, certainly. But in fit state to face the world? Doubtful.

"_Thank God for Easter Break_," he thought. At least, he wouldn't have to face the sharks swimming at Harbor High for another two weeks. Perhaps, when he had to go back, he'd feel less empty than he did now.

8888

Seth was nervous. And whenever Seth was nervous, he talked.

Actually, he **always** talked. It was a running joke in his family and among his friends, just as Ryan's quietness was a teasing matter. Only those who knew Seth well knew the difference between relaxed and nervous banter.

His parents knew him well. Oh, he could still surprise them, like when he decided that a juvenile delinquent he had just met was his new best friend, or when he took his boat and left for Catalina, but most times he was fairly predictable, as far as teenagers went.

And his parents were both watching him gently as he tried to process what had happened last night, while he was partying.

Preoccupied with the girl in his life, Seth had distractedly listened to Ryan's "Must go, see you later." There had been no premonition that something bad was going to happen. It was, after all, a party. While Ryan was known to sometimes hang out at these, he was also known for often leaving early, or at the very least, isolating himself when the party hit full gear.

They joked about that sometimes. Seth asked whether Ryan felt uncomfortable socializing with all these people. Ryan replied, "Horribly so," in his best bad boy voice and Seth pretended he was intimidated.

Seth wondered, every now and then, if Ryan didn't think that all these superficial, rich, spoiled kids were a little pathetic in their attempts to have fun. Or perhaps Ryan associated parties with drunkenness - no reason why he shouldn't, Holly organized some fairly wild parties - and drunkenness didn't bring back happy memories for Ryan Atwood.

Or perhaps, Seth admitted, Ryan simply didn't like crowds, the loud music and the stupid bragging inebriated teenagers indulged in. Not everything had to be dramatic; not everything was a bad "based on a true story," made-for-TV movie.

And Seth was now rambling in his head. Wonderful.

Well, okay, technically, he **always** rambled in his head.

He had assumed Ryan had come back to the party, and was hanging out with friends. Holly's parties were not famous - or infamous, as it may be - for nothing. They were loud, and crowded. It was easy to lose sight of the people you came with.

Seth had assumed that Ryan was having fun, until Summer had told Seth that if he wanted to make his curfew, he should go.

The car hadn't been there anymore, and Seth had assumed - he now officially hated that word, and he swore to himself that he would never assume anything ever again - that Ryan hadn't found him and had driven home without him.

Seth had even been a little pissed.

Summer had given him a ride, and he had come home fifteen minutes late, to find his mother sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and looking lost.

She had explained what had happened.

Seth had been shocked. He hadn't found anything to say on the spot. A rare occurrence, indeed. She had sent him to bed and he had barely slept.

And now, he was prattling, because Ryan would wake up soon, and Seth wasn't sure what to say.

His parents were eating bagels listlessly, and he supposed he hadn't been the only one who'd gone sleepless last night.

They also weren't offering useful advice on how to speak with someone who had had such a shitty thing happen, a fact that bothered Seth greatly.

His parents, and especially his father, **always** offered advice, even when it was neither required nor wanted. They had an opinion on everything, were overbearing at times, and now, just as Seth desperately needed some good piece of advice, they weren't delivering.

Seth dismissed his first suspicion - _they didn't have a clue either - _as too unlikely, and decided to let them drink their coffee. Perhaps the blessed beverage would give them the answers.

A boy could dream.

He sneaked out of the kitchen and went into the poolhouse. The shower was running so Seth sat on the bed, fidgety, trying to find something funny to say - difficult on only two hours of sleep, but not impossible. He was Seth Cohen; he had a special gene enabling him to be witty (or was it geeky?) in almost every situation.

When Ryan emerged from the bathroom, all Seth's "witty" gene could provide was, "So, er, you okay?" Seth stopped dead in his tracks. Although "dead" was probably a bad choice of words, given the circumstances.

Ryan's lips twitched. "So, your parents told you, then."

Seth nodded. "I can do better," he said decisively. "And hey, this must be a first. You said more words than I did, just then." He frowned. "Hm, improvement, but not yet the quality of wit you deserve."

Ryan snorted.

"Seriously, man, I'm sorry," Seth said.

Ryan frowned. "What for?"

Seth breathed deeply, theatrically, and bowed his head. In one breath, he said, "I didn't pay attention when you left and failed to return and I assumed you had driven home and forgotten me there and I was even a little mad at you for that."

Ryan blinked.

"Sorry," Seth added.

"I didn't really understand a word of that, but yeah, no problem."

"Good of you to forgive me." He blinked up at Ryan. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Anything at all? Buy you a puppy and sneak it into the house, then hide it from the rents? Let you win at the ninja game? Loan you my precious collector copy of 'Lord of the Rings?' No human hands have ever touched it, man, but for you, I would make an exception. Oh yes."

Ryan frowned. "**Let** me win?" He looked at Seth. Who could still spot a challenge when he heard one.

"Ninja game it is, then. Name the time; I'll choose the location. Or whatever."

Ryan smiled slightly.

"Seriously, if there's anything, just ask. I'd do anything for my partner in crime, and-" Ryan flinched. Seth took a brief moment to marvel at his mouth's ability to say things his brain hadn't first checked over. "Sorry."

When he looked up, his father was at the door, staring at him disbelievingly, and Ryan was biting his lip.

His father was the first to recover. "Seth. Kitchen. Now."

Seth fled, cursing himself.

8888

Seth waited two hours before trying to talk to Ryan again.

After breakfast, his father had left for the office.

"It's Saturday," Seth had pointed out.

His father had shot him a warning glance, before saying in a cheerful tone, "I have some paperwork to finish. I won't be long at all."

Ryan had looked at Seth strangely, but hadn't said anything.

Seth had understood, a little late, that his father was probably going to talk to the police, and had kept his mouth shut.

His mother had then announced that she was going to take the following week off, dismissing Ryan's assurances that he was fine.

"I know you are, but I'm long overdue for a vacation, and there's nothing urgent at the office," she had said.

Ryan seemed to be learning the art of parent talk, because he hadn't insisted, recognizing the lost cause.

"So," Seth said bravely, approaching the patio chair where Ryan was reading. "I'd like to try that again. Without the foot in the mouth."

Ryan shot him a quizzical glance. "Try what?"

Seth dropped in the chair next to him. "The comforting thing. Only manly. The talking about vaguely related subjects, to make it clear that we're friends and can depend on each other, but without saying so because that would be minty. And we're manly men."

Ryan looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Anyway. I wasn't great last time Oliver was around, and I want to do better this time."

"I told you it was okay," Ryan pointed out. "Last time, I mean."

"You did, and it was big of you, because you were in your right to punch me. I'd have punched me."

There was a snort behind him. "Everyone wants to punch you, Cohen," Luke said.

"Luke!" Seth said, forcing the joviality in his tone. "What are you doing at Casa Cohen on such a sunny morning?"

Ryan merely nodded in greeting.

Luke looked from Seth to Ryan with an amused smile before turning serious. "I heard," he said to Ryan. "You okay?"

Ryan shrugged. "Fine."

Seth nodded sagely. "You are." He turned to Luke. "He is."

"Seth's keeping me entertained," Ryan added.

"Oh?"

He nodded. "He's been reduced to silence by himself twice already."

Luke snickered. "Impressive."

Seth pouted. Summer often said it was cute. Ryan and Luke didn't pay attention to the poutiness, which was probably for the best.

"Have you seen Marissa?" Ryan asked.

"Not yet. I know she's out of the hospital. I think Julie gave her something - of the Valium variety. They're staying at a model house of the Newport group, while…" Luke trailed off. Seth supposed the guy was looking for an appropriate way to tell Ryan, "While they clean all the blood." But there was probably no such thing as a good way to say that, so Luke finally added, "You know."

An uncomfortable silence fell, and Ryan paled, staring blankly at Luke.

"Man?" Luke asked, as Seth called, "Ryan?"

Ryan shook his head, smiling apologetically. "Sorry," he said.

Luke sat down. "No problem."

Seth concurred. "Yeah. Whatever you want to say. Or not say. Or whatever."

Ryan's lips twitched. "You're making even less sense than usual, Seth. But thanks."

Seth smiled, satisfied.

"So, what is it like to be back?" Ryan asked Luke.

Luke began to explain how awkward it was; how he needed to see Marissa after what had happened, but that implied running into Julie, and that he was totally over Julie but... Seth tuned him out. Luke may have progressed as a human being, but Seth didn't feel obligated to forgive all the bullying and the humiliations Luke had inflicted on him as a kid.

Ryan seemed interested in what Luke was saying, providing advice and commiserating.

Good, Seth thought. As long as Luke gave Ryan something to think about, he was welcome to stay.

And, hey, Seth had been in Ryan's company for almost five minutes now, if not ten, and still no foot in the mouth.

He was on a roll.

8888

True to his word, Sandy came back early.

Kirsten was cleaning the kitchen cupboard. The short nap she had taken in the morning hadn't helped her and she felt exhausted.

"Hey," Sandy greeted.

"Hi, honey."

They kissed and held on to each other for a few seconds. Then Sandy said, "I talked to the police."

Kirsten let go of him. "Is there a problem with Ryan?" she asked, immediately worried.

"No, no!" Sandy smiled. "If nothing else, they're now one hundred percent certain that Ryan didn't have any choice."

Kirsten smiled grimly. "Good."

Sandy looked at the patio, where Ryan, Luke and Seth were lounging, talking animatedly. Seth was saying something, arms waving in the air, Luke was laughing and Ryan was watching the scene with a small smile.

"Luke arrived two hours ago," Kirsten said.

"Good."

"What did the police say?" The real question she wanted to ask was, "Why did this happen?" but she trusted Sandy to read between the lines.

Sandy went into the living room and she followed, sitting down next to him.

"Oliver was released from the hospital five months ago, having been declared cured and fit to go back to a normal life."

"Already?" Her lips had already thinned.

"He wasn't a danger to himself or others anymore," Sandy said in his best professional voice, not at all laced with irony. Not at all. "He still had follow-up appointments, but he seemed to be doing well."

"And?"

"And guess what his parents did?"

"Left him on his own?"

He nodded grimly. Kirsten didn't think she'd ever understand people like that. Oliver had tried to kill himself twice, and they had still left him alone? Had they found the warning signs too subtle?

"The therapist they talked to now recognizes that Oliver must have lied about having gotten over his obsession with Marissa."

Kirsten growled. "Does he now?"

"Yes." Sandy shook his head. "Oliver went to see Marissa, entered, threatened her. She panicked."

"And called Ryan," Kirsten finished for him. She selfishly wished the girl had called somebody else - like, for example, an adult trained to respond to this kind of situation. And maybe that made her the worst person on the face of the earth, but so be it.

"How is he doing?" Sandy asked with a nod to the patio.

"I didn't see him much," she admitted. "I thought it would be best to let him breathe a little."

"Probably."

She rubbed her eyes. "Oliver had already done enough damage the last time," she said. "And now, we find ourselves cleaning up behind him **again** because his parents didn't care, and the people who were supposed to help him were too full of themselves to see through his game."

"Yes."

Their eyes met. "They didn't warn us about that when we became parents," she said.

"We'll sue them," Sandy said seriously. "Whoever **they** are."

Most times, she found her husband's sense of humor atrocious. Today was no exception. And yet, she found herself laughing at his earnest tone.

They would survive this, she resolved. No matter what it took.

* * *

Again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews! 


	6. Chapter 5 : The Talk

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter Five : The Talk**

Three days after Oliver's death, Kirsten and Sandy were still trying to come to terms with what had happened.

Their days began as they always had. Sandy and Kirsten ate breakfast in the kitchen. They read the newspaper. As it was the holidays, the boys slept in—Seth, always; Ryan, often.

The days were quiet. The boys played video games, lazed around in the pool, half-heartedly did some homework. Kirsten kept her eyes and her ears open while she worked a little around the house, prepared her list for shopping, or whatever would help her to get over her work withdrawal.

Ryan didn't go out at all. Luke came over and spent a few hours with him almost every day, and Seth sometimes went out for a while with Summer. There ended the comings and goings of the teenagers. Kirsten had grown used to more noise and activity from them. She didn't know if she found such quietness soothing or alarming. Nor did she care. She spent too many hours every day, analyzing every nuance of what Ryan said or did, every nuance of what she and Sandy said or did in return. This constant scrutinizing was slowly driving her mad.

"Should we be worried?" Sandy asked, interrupting Kirsten's musings.

"Excuse me?"

"About Ryan," he said. "Should we be worried that he doesn't talk more about what happened?"

She managed to restrain a sigh, but just barely. She didn't have the answers Sandy was looking for—with Ryan, there was always a fine line between giving him the space he wanted and ignoring issues. In this case, she was flying blind.

"Ryan will talk when he's ready," she kept saying. "All we can do is remind him that we're here." And they did try to make sure that they were present enough, but not overbearing. And days passed, and Ryan still answered their questions with his trademark, "I'm fine," or, "It's okay." And then he redirected the discussion.

No one really believed that Ryan was as fine as he claimed to be—Kirsten didn't think that Ryan himself believed it—but what were they supposed to do? Push him to talk and run the risk of making things worse, or wait and see?

Damn it, she was tired of tip-toeing around the problem.

She spent a lot of time thinking about the first time Oliver had been around. Now, she regretted that they had never talked about it with Ryan. For the first few days after the hotel incident, Ryan had made it clear he didn't want to talk and wouldn't appreciate being pressured. Then, shortly after the Valentine's Day Party, he had begun to relax around the Cohens again. They had all been so relieved that they rushed to move on.

Had it been a mistake to let it go?

Had they misread Ryan again?

Had he been mad at them all this time, and simply decided that there was no point in pushing the issue?

She opened her mouth to share her doubts with Sandy and closed it again without saying a word. He was looking at the poolhouse, his unease apparent. She didn't want to add to his worries.

She made a mental note to try and find an opening to talk about it with Ryan, though. Oliver's "Second Coming," as Luke had tastelessly put it, might still be off limits, but surely, it had been long enough since Oliver's first breakdown. The subject was probably safe now.

"Kirsten?" Sandy asked, startling her.

"Yes?"

"You didn't answer. Should we be worried?"

"I don't think so," she said carefully.

"It's been three days."

"I know."

"Should we insist? Should we mention therapy?"

Kirsten shook her head. Ryan seemed as fine as possible. He also seemed slightly… off. Not noticeably so; if he went back to Harbor the next day, she doubted anyone would see the difference. She likely wouldn't have seen it herself, one year ago. But she saw it now. Ryan was more withdrawn, more silent. He didn't smile as much as he had in the last few months, and Kirsten felt profoundly saddened by the loss of these smiles—the ones that reached Ryan's eyes, the ones that said more about the fact that he felt safe with the Cohens than words ever would.

"I think it's too soon to insist," she decided. She didn't even bother answering the "therapy" part of the question. With Seth, yes, she would have suggested it. In Ryan's case, it was more likely to worsen the problem than to fix it, at this point. Therapy would be the last resort option. It was too soon to think about it.

"He's barely said two words," Sandy pointed out. "Not since that night." He added a mumbled, "When he was exhausted and in shock."

"Sandy…" Logic didn't apply to this situation. She couldn't decide that three days of mourning were fine, but that four weren't. She needed to trust her gut feeling, and her gut feeling was telling her to give Ryan a little more time. "Let's try to relax, all of us, and trust him."

He opened his mouth to protest. She didn't let him speak. "I really think we need to let him decide when he wants to talk. And accept the fact that Seth and Luke will probably hear more than we do at first."

"If you're sure."

Sandy still looked dubious. She didn't blame him. The fact that it was Oliver, who had already come so close to destroying the relationship they had with Ryan, made her nervous too.

They hadn't believed Ryan then. They should have, she acknowledged. They should have known that Ryan, while not above fighting every now and then, didn't use his fists to beat someone up just for the hell of it. They were learning to know each other then. Their relationship was still fragile—uncomfortable and tentative. Fate had certainly chosen a very bad time to add Oliver to the mix, Kirsten thought.

But then she supposed there was no such thing as a good time for something like that to happen—just like there wasn't a good time to have to kill someone in self-defense.

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Three days after Oliver's death, Ryan was still trying to come to terms with what had happened.

He was very thankful for the holidays in general, and spring break in particular. While he was functional enough to deal with the Cohens and Luke, he didn't think he would have been up for the teenage drama of Harbor High.

The Cohens said that it was normal, that he could have as much time as he needed to deal with That Night—that was how Seth had referred to it; That Night, spoken in a hushed tone, and Ryan could even hear the capital letters in Seth's voice. When Seth said That Night now, everyone knew which night he was talking about. Not the night when he and Ryan went to L.A.. Not the night they spent in Vegas. Not even the night they all stayed home and studied. But the night Ryan killed someone.

Which wasn't to say that Ryan didn't feel better—better being a very relative term. Really, after That Night, there had been nowhere to go but up. So, yes, he felt better than he had then. That still wasn't saying much, Ryan mused, as he unashamedly lazed around on one of the pool seats.

To the outside world, he supposed he looked normal. Luke, at least, didn't seem to find him weirder than usual. The Cohens were another story. They kept hovering, always asking him how he felt, what he was thinking about. Thankfully, they allowed him to evade their questions, and left him in peace when he asked them to. "We're here if you want to talk," they said.

It wasn't that he wanted to keep them at arm's length. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to them, or that he preferred leaving them in the dark. They were so obviously worried, so obviously careful around him that Ryan actually wanted to appease them. He just didn't know how he could possibly explain how he felt. Hell, he wasn't even sure how he felt.

Tired, yes. Unable to focus on anything for a reasonable amount of time. His thoughts kept taking him back to That Night. Kept reminding him of the look on Oliver's face when the gun went off.

But the largest implications were still vastly lost on Ryan. He knew he had killed someone, an irrevocable action that would probably change him profoundly. But he didn't feel it yet. He knew what had happened, and he was now waiting for the proverbial penny to drop. Waiting for the time when it would come crashing down on him. So many clichés at his disposal to translate the fact that while he was now thinking normally, he was far from _feeling_ normally.

Ryan had learned early on that it always dawned little by little—"it" covering pretty much every crappy thing that could happen. His mother's abandonment hadn't sunk in immediately. It was little things that brought it home. The vague sensation that something wasn't right when he woke up, and was still too drowsy to recognize his surroundings. The fact that she wasn't there when he came back from school, to ask him how the girls in his life treated him. Or to insult him.

Small things missing, adding up to create a bigger void, and who looked straight inside the void at the risk of being swallowed by it? Ryan thought it was safer to tiptoe around said void, measuring its dimension, the place it was now taking in his life, before going further and accepting it.

So, for now, he tried to avoid thinking about the cold handcuffs on his wrists, or the feel of the gun's handle in his hand. Guns and handcuffs had played a big part in two of the worst nights of his life. Ryan supposed it wasn't surprising that he now associated violence and fear, guilt and failure, with the coldness of metal.

His thoughts were taking a sinister turn, he decided.

He concentrated on the sun warming his skin, the soft noise of the water lapping on the walls of the pool and the general quietness of the neighborhood. He still had a hard time believing just how silent it was around here. There was always noise in Chino—people arguing, music coming from the houses, car horns, police sirens. The first nights he had spent at the Cohens, it had taken hours for him to fall asleep without those familiar reference marks. And the same thing had happened when he had come back in the fall.

Once he was used to it, though, the silence was soothing.

The sensation of being observed derailed his train of thought.

He opened his eyes and spotted Marissa near the edge of the pool.

She was radiating awkwardness, much like she had after the first "Oliver climax," as Seth had dubbed it—before deciding that it was probably an unfortunate choice of words.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

Ryan could almost hear his brother's mocking voice_. "Hey is for horses." _

After a tense silence, Ryan asked, "How are you doing?"

He hadn't talked to her since That Night, but Kirsten had kept him updated. Seeing Marissa now, shrunk on herself, he thought he should have called her. But he hadn't wanted to talk to Julie Cooper, who was filtering Marissa's calls. Ryan didn't know if the woman blamed him for what had happened, and wasn't particularly anxious to find out.

Marissa smiled weakly. "I'm fine. Mom finally let me out for a while."

"Okay."

"Well, technically, she's with Kirsten in the kitchen."

Ryan sent a brief prayer to every deity currently on duty, hoping divine intervention would be enough to keep Julie away from him. He didn't need that much reality right now.

He slipped from his seat into the water, swam to the edge, then climbed out. He hadn't taken a towel with him, so he made a vague gesture in the direction of the poolhouse. "I'll be back in a sec," he said.

Marissa nodded and sat down to wait.

When Ryan came back, still in his swimming trunks but with a t-shirt hastily thrown on—in case divine intervention wasn't sufficient and Julie came by—Marissa was fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. He sat next to her and leaned back, trying to recapture his earlier contentment. It was long gone, though.

They were silent for a very long time, long enough to make Ryan uncomfortable, and he was the strong and silent type. "So," he finally said.

"So…" Marissa trailed off.

Ryan sighed inwardly. Was he supposed to do all the work here? "How are you doing?"

She shrugged, crossed her arms over her waist. Ryan knew all about defensive body language, but he didn't think he had ever seen such a by-the-book representation of it. "Fine," she said.

"Freaked out, insecure, neurotic, emotional," he mumbled.

She looked at him, surprised. "What?"

"That's what my brother used to say, when I told him I was fine. He said fine stood for freaked out—"

"Insecure, and so on," she completed. "I think I must have said that to Caitlin once. But I don't remember where I got it from."

Ryan shrugged. "Maybe older siblings just know annoying stuff like that. Genetics."

She chuckled, looking a little more relaxed. "Yeah."

"I thought about calling," he offered. "But I figured you needed some time."

"That's okay."

"Your mom kept you under key until now, then?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I think she was freaked. And we needed to have the house cleaned. We went back yesterday."

Ryan wondered how he would feel if it had happened in the poolhouse, and he had to go back every day. He shivered. "That must have been…" He wasn't sure what word could adequately describe the situation. But then, Ryan had always thought that words were rarely adequate, as a rule.

"Intense," Marissa finished. "It was. She's dragging me to a stupid therapist again," she complained.

Ryan thought that it was probably a good thing, but refrained from saying so. As Seth had once said, Marissa didn't handle bad news very well. But she didn't want to hear that from Ryan. She didn't want to hear it from anyone, really.

"The Cohens haven't talked about that yet, but I'm sure it's on their mind," he offered.

"Perhaps my mom is busy convincing Kirsten."

At his grimace, she hastened to add, "Sorry, I was joking. I'm… I'm sure she's not."

He forced a smile. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry I called you," she said. "That night."

No capital letters in her tone, Ryan noted. "Why?"

"I know we're not together anymore, and it's not your job to help me when I screw up. I knew he'd be mad if I called you. I just didn't know who else… I'm sorry."

"When you screw up?" Ryan repeated, lost. Surely, Marissa understood that the situation was different from all the times she had called problems on herself through her thoughtlessness. Then the light dawned. The penny dropped, so to speak. He sucked in a breath. "Marissa, did you know he was out?" His voice sounded wrong—too clipped, too hard. Metallic, even.

She hid her head in her hands. "I'm sorry," she repeated, her voice muffled. "He was… he seemed normal."

Ryan refrained from snarking that she had thought Oliver was normal before, too.

"He emailed me when he was released," Marissa explained. "He said he wanted to apologize. We met, he did, and we kept in touch. He seemed…"

"Normal," he finished when she trailed off. She nodded, clasped her hands on her knees, still refusing to look at him.

"Then he showed up unannounced, the day of, well, that day. He looked weird. Kept saying he could make me happy, if I'd only let him try. Kept saying we were meant to be. And all I could think of was, 'How could I be so stupid?' and I panicked, and I called you." She closed her eyes, her face a perfect picture of distress. "I'm sorry. And now you're going to hate me, and I can't blame you for that."

Ryan bit back a retort. Marissa, just like Dawn, thought everything in Ryan's life began and ended with her. Marissa, just like Dawn, was always sorry. Marissa, just like Dawn, couldn't stand people being mad at her. Ryan sighed wearily, but gave her what she wanted—he was too tired, too shaky to withstand an argument. "I'm, well, not glad you did, obviously, but I'm glad he didn't kill you. Or me, for that matter."

"Still, I—"

"Marissa, it's okay," Ryan insisted, hoping she wouldn't make things even more difficult. "I know I strongly implied I didn't want to clean up your messes anymore, but I was talking mostly of drugs and alcohol. When a lunatic keeps you hostage, feel free to call."

She had a strangled laugh. "When?"

"I mean 'if,' obviously. **If** another lunatic ever comes around, feel free."

She was almost laughing at that point, her previous guilt seemingly forgotten. "Was your life like that before I came along?" Ryan asked when she calmed down.

"There were fewer lunatics," she said. "There were also more drugs." When she hung her head, he reached over and took her hand.

"It's okay," he lied. "He was very good at manipulating people. And we did decide to be friends. I could have done without him dying, but I'll deal." He shrugged. He liked Marissa, but for the first time ever, he was glad they weren't dating anymore. She was always so demanding, so quick to pick up whatever new shiny thing she saw, before dumping it as soon as she was tired of it. And Ryan was tired of dealing with everyone's problems, on top of his own. It wasn't that he **minded** doing so, most of the time, but he was damn tired all the same.

She looked at him. "Good. Okay."

"You'll be fine too."

"I suppose," she said.

It was easier this way, Ryan thought. They would act as if nothing had happened, they would become vague acquaintances, and with luck, there wouldn't be any huge fight and destructive arguments between the two of them anymore. He could like Marissa, if he wasn't too involved in her life.

They stayed silent for a while, hand in hand. "He was going to kill me, wasn't he?" Marissa asked at last, her voice trembling.

He squeezed her hand. He could have lied to her, reassured her, but she wasn't stupid. What Oliver had said about how he and Marissa would have all the time in the world, about the fact that no one would separate them again, had to have stuck with her. "Yes, I think so," he said.

She didn't add anything. After five minutes, Julie and Kirsten came from the kitchen.

Julie marched to Ryan, who released Marissa's hand and began to rise. Julie motioned him down, looked at him for a while, then said, "Thanks." She grimaced, making a good impression of a person swallowing lemon juice. Ryan wondered if Julie knew that Marissa had been in contact with Oliver, and instantly concluded that yes, she knew. Otherwise, she would never have thanked him—Julie's way of saying, "I know you know. Let's keep it to ourselves, shall we?" Julie gave him a dismissive glance and turned to Marissa. "Come on, sweetheart; we have to go."

Marissa followed her mother, whispering, "Thanks again," to Ryan.

Ryan nodded and watched them go, while Kirsten sat on the chair Marissa had just vacated.

As Julie was starting the car, Marissa waved shyly at Ryan. He nodded in her direction, then smiled hesitantly at Kirsten.

"That was interesting," she said.

"That's one way to put it," Ryan deadpanned.

"Julie Cooper showing gratitude."

"Scary would be another way to put it," Ryan said. He leaned back on his seat. "Julie's making Marissa go to therapy," he said, looking at the blue sky, the pool, the horizon line, the ground, anywhere but in Kirsten's direction.

"She told me."

He shouted the question in his head, hoping Kirsten would hear it and wouldn't make him actually spell it out for her. He wasn't disappointed—he was rarely disappointed by the Cohens. "Sandy and I talked about it. Well, mostly Sandy." She hesitated. "We haven't made a decision. Yet."

He nodded. "I just… this seems to become such an automatism. You have a problem, bam, go to a therapist. Magical solution." Although the solution hadn't been magical at all in Oliver's case.

"You mean, especially around here?" Kirsten asked.

He shrugged apologetically. Sometimes, the habits and customs of the rich and beautiful people of Newport still bewildered or amused him. Their relationships with their therapists were an endless source of surprise for Ryan. Some of these people seemed to require therapy to face the hardships of a broken nail. "Oh, I assure you, very few people in Chino have enough money to afford a nervous breakdown," he said.

She opened her mouth and he hastened to add, "I know, that's not the way it works. I know, they probably have them, they just don't do anything about it, until they snap. But I don't think I really need it." After all, Ryan reasoned, once upon a time, there weren't any therapists, and people just dealt with life's sucker punches on their own. And they survived, too.

Kirsten smiled. "Fine. I was expecting you to say so. I just wanted to say, don't wait until it's too late."

He looked at her then and saw the barely-concealed worry, and the dark circles under her eyes—she didn't seem to be sleeping very well these days. _Thanks so much, Oliver_, he thought. "I won't," he said. "It's usually hard to miss it, when I lose it," he added, self-consciously.

She patted his knee. "Good. Seth and Sandy called; they're on the way."

He got to his feet. "I'll go take a shower, then."

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Ryan sat up with a gasp, Marissa's name on his lips. This time, Oliver had shot her, and Ryan hadn't been able to move. He had just stood there, frozen. Probably his worst nightmare ever—seeing someone he loved in danger, and being unable to help.

Marissa had looked surprised in his dream, before she died. And there had been blood, lots of it, all over everything.

Great. Just great. He was never going to be able to sleep again this morning, and it was only six. He and Seth had played video games until two in the morning, which meant that Seth wouldn't be up for hours.

Ryan pondered for a while. Did he want to go to the kitchen? Not really.

Did he want to even get out of the pool house? Not really—not when the nightmare was still so close, not when he could still feel Marissa's warm, sticky blood on his hands.

Not for the first time that week, Ryan indulged in some wishful thinking.

If only he had called the police instead of entering the house.

If only he had forgotten his phone at home.

If only he hadn't listened to Marissa's shaky voice, hadn't agreed to help her.

If only, if only, if only…

But then, Marissa would probably be dead, as well as Oliver.

And Ryan wouldn't have killed anyone. He wouldn't have had to be dragged to the police station again, and he would be asleep right now. His most urgent problem would be the upcoming semester at Harbor, and the Cohens wouldn't look like death warmed over from lack of sleep.

He wouldn't be haunted by Oliver's eyes, wouldn't ponder useless "what ifs" early in the morning.

He lay back down, arms thrown across his face. Trying not to think about "what ifs" or "might have beens"—certainly, what **had** been was enough to contend with.

Marissa was fine, if a little more perturbed than she had been before.

Oliver was the one who had died, leaving behind parents who probably wouldn't even notice, and who else? From what Ryan knew, the guy had lost all his friends in his first breakdown, and Ryan hadn't heard about any other family.

Once upon a time, Ryan had been that alone. His brother and Theresa had been the only people he had mattered to. Once upon a time, very few people would have mourned Ryan.

For a brief moment, he felt sad, thinking about how lonely that life had been. He could almost feel sad for Oliver too—absent parents, no friends, and a crush on Marissa. Yeah, Ryan could relate. Sort of. And none of it made up for the fact that Oliver had been nuts, had tried to kill Ryan, had tried to kill Marissa, and had made Ryan a killer.

Ryan shivered. He still didn't feel the weight of what he had done, but the moment was fast approaching when he would.

And he had no idea what to do to avoid that, or to soften the blow.

Ryan didn't consciously pick up the phone. He only realized he was calling Trey when the connection was established and the phone began to ring.


	7. Chapter 6 : The Interlude

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 6 : The Interlude**

Inmates couldn't get phone calls outside specified hours, so Ryan left a message, feeling like an idiot for calling a prison at six in the morning. He then managed to go back to sleep—a short nap that did wonders for him.

At eight, deciding he had lazed around in bed long enough, he went to the kitchen to grab something to eat. Sandy was still there, drinking his coffee. Ryan nodded at him distractedly.

A quote he had once read was trotting around in his head ever since he had woken up for the second time. "To be scared is sensible; to be comfortable is suicidal."

If Ryan had ever known who had said that, he had forgotten the information a long time ago. Not that it mattered.

"To be scared is sensible; to be comfortable is suicidal." Once upon a time, this was a perfect way to summarize Ryan's state of mind. Once upon a time, Ryan never let his guard down. When AJ entered his life, he even stopped sleeping soundly, always ready to defend himself, even in his sleep.

Thinking back on it now, Ryan couldn't believe just how long he had been able to live under constant pressure, always ready to be hit, to draw a fist and defend himself. Always ready to be hurt or disappointed by his mother or his brother. Always ready to be tossed aside and forgotten.

He didn't know when, in the course of his stay with the Cohens, he had dropped that particular instinct—when he had stopped being sensible and become suicidal, when he had allowed them to get close, at the risk of being betrayed or rejected again.

Taking that risk had been scary.

No, scratch that.

It had been terrifying. And Ryan hadn't let his guard down in one day either. It had taken a lot of small gestures, reassuring words, and parental advice, until he was sure that these kind strangers truly meant their offer for help.

It had been more than worth it. When Sandy had said, before Ryan left for Chino, "You know we'd do anything for you," Ryan had known it had been worth it.

"To be scared is sensible; to be comfortable is suicidal." One day, not so far in the future, Ryan would explain that to Sandy. One day, he would tell Sandy how much the Cohens had changed his life.

Ryan was now, and he could barely believe it, considering talking to an adult as a viable option when there was a problem. And yes, there were still small bugs in the communication process, from time to time. Kirsten and Sandy being constantly gone or at each other's throats for weeks, after Chrismukkah, hadn't helped. Neither did the fact that sometimes, Ryan's old insecurities came back with a vengeance, and he decided to not bother the Cohens with his problems, because, really, who was he to have problems?

Still, overall, Ryan's communication's skills were increasing.

Too bad said communication skills weren't helping in this case. The Cohens were growing scared, Ryan was growing frustrated with himself, and there was only one way to fix things.

Words.

The Cohens needed to hear something reassuring. Ryan needed to _find _something reassuring to say.

They needed words, all of them.

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Sandy considered the pensive teenager sitting next to him, munching on his cereal—a sight so familiar, Sandy couldn't believe that a short twenty months earlier, he didn't even know the kid.

Parenting was such a guessing game, even in the best of circumstances. And the world Seth and Ryan were growing up in hardly presented the best of circumstances. When Sandy thought about Ryan sitting in front of the police officer, he wanted to take the kid, find Seth, and lock them both in a room until the world was safer.

Pity he couldn't do that, seeing as how social services might frown upon it, in all their wisdom.

Someone, possibly Jimmy, had once told Sandy that certainly, being a parent got easier with time. Sandy wondered if, like himself, Jimmy was finding it increasingly difficult.

Sandy was a control freak. He freely admitted it.

He didn't like that there were people he couldn't help. He didn't like that there were things he couldn't protect the boys from. And he didn't like that he couldn't read minds—that he couldn't know for sure what they were thinking.

He wished he had easy answers at his disposal. He wished he could tell Ryan, "This is why it happened; this is who was responsible. All is well now."

When Kirsten had accepted to let Ryan stay, Sandy had told her that they were in way over their heads.

How right he had been.

Yet, surprisingly, the difficulties hadn't been where he had expected them to be.

After a rocky start, Ryan had fit right into their lives, and even if the rest of the Newport snobs still eyed him warily, the Cohens couldn't remember how life was pre-Ryan. After Ryan had gone back to Chino in the summer, Kirsten had said, "I didn't even know something was missing from this family until he came along. Three weeks after his arrival, I couldn't conceive him not being here. And now…." She had cried a little, and he had held her, feeling exactly the same way.

Sandy still felt awed when he thought about the way Ryan had entered their lives. So many things could have gone wrong.

When they had met, Ryan was a lost kid, well on his way to becoming another statistic. Sooner rather than later, people would have stopped seeing the bright kid, and seen only the delinquent, yet another victim of poverty and domestic abuse.

And then, Ryan messed up, and was assigned Sandy Cohen as a defendant. And when Sandy saw him, something clicked. Why this kid and not another? To this day, Sandy couldn't answer. Many people had asked him just that. People still asked him now. And all he could say was, "Because." For someone who was paid to talk, and to talk convincingly, he was certainly flunking in this case.

It would have taken so little. If Dawn hadn't kicked Ryan out, if Ryan hadn't found himself without a place to sleep—if he hadn't taken a chance and called a lawyer he had spoken to for ten minutes, on the off chance that said lawyer truly meant his offer for help and wasn't a psycho.

If Seth hadn't taken one look at Ryan and decided he had found his long lost brother.

If Sandy hadn't married a kind-hearted woman.

A chain of coincidence, of hurried decisions, of intuitive propositions.

It could all have been derailed so easily.

_What were the odds of something like that happening_? Sandy wondered.

And now, after all this, after everything that had happened the previous year, Sandy found himself at a loss for what to do. Days hadn't brought him any answers. He needed words. He needed to hear something from Ryan, needed to find something comforting to say. He and Kirsten, and presumably Luke and Seth, had just spent four days asking Ryan how he was, and telling him that he had done what he had to. They needed to find something else, because obviously, what they were doing wasn't sufficient.

8888888888

"_Uh oh_," Ryan thought.

Sandy had his "talk" look on.

The one that promised an awkward discussion, and probably a pat on the back.

Sandy opened his mouth, and what went out was the last thing Ryan expected. "I'm sorry."

Ryan blinked. "Why?"

Sandy smiled sheepishly. "Because I didn't see it coming? Because I couldn't keep you from it? Because the best I could say was that it would all get better? Take your pick."

Ryan shook his head. "What more is there to say?" he asked.

"I don't know. Hence, the apology."

Ryan stared at his half-eaten sandwich. He hadn't talked to anyone about the night Oliver had died. He knew that Sandy had stayed in the poolhouse, probably until early in the morning. But Ryan's memories of that night were fuzzy at best. He could, however, vaguely remember the hug Sandy had given him. He was sorry he couldn't recapture that moment more precisely, was sorry he hadn't enjoyed it more while it lasted.

For a brief moment, Ryan intensely wished someone would hug him now, and not let go for ten minutes—with an option for five more. He wished someone would tell him that everything was going to be all right.

After sixteen years of living with only minimal emotional security, Ryan was now recognizing the value of comfort. If someone offered him a hug right now, he would gripe and complain for the sake of his teenager pride, but he would enjoy it all the same.

Ryan cursed his own inability to tell Sandy or Kirsten that he appreciated everything they were doing for him—not just the material security, but the affective one as well. The fact that they tried to make him feel better, that they wanted to make sure he was fine, meant the world to him.

He felt like he was failing them. He couldn't find anything intelligent or reassuring to say about That Night; he couldn't make it all better. Every time he tried to talk about Oliver, he couldn't even begin to choose how to broach the subject. Should he first deal with the fact that he had been stupid enough to enter the house? Should he say that he regretted having killed Oliver, but that he also loved life very much and didn't plan on dying anytime soon? Should he explain how terrified he had been when the cops had entered Marissa's room? How scared he had been of losing everything he had gained in the last twenty months?

Increased verbal skills or not, when he tried to talk about Oliver with the Cohens, any coherent thought flew out of his head, leaving only a vague sensation of malaise—and rendering Ryan as inarticulate as a four-year-old. So, he fell back on old, safe habits, and told them he was fine, never hoping he'd fool them, but still hoping they'd let it go.

Ryan was beginning to wonder what it would take to "unblock" him.

Sandy went on, interrupting Ryan's musings. "I know I didn't have anything better to offer than 'It'll get better,' and you must feel cheated, who wouldn't?"

"I don't," Ryan said, inwardly shouting that the Cohens weren't the ones lacking in the communication department, that it was Ryan who was failing, and spectacularly so.

But, perhaps, if he couldn't talk to the Cohens about Oliver yet, he could reassure Sandy a little on his parenting skills.

Ryan took a breath, cursing the fact that he hadn't learned to do that stuff with Dawn, and that he couldn't be flippant like Seth. But what did he have to lose? His bad boy image? It wasn't as if Sandy hadn't seen through it after five minutes.

He had to say it, or he wouldn't be able to sleep.

He wanted to say it. He wanted to offer something, anything to Sandy.

"Sandy…" He trailed off, then gathered all his courage. Who was the genius who had decided that verbal communication was a good thing, anyway? "Thanks for saying it?" He smiled nervously, eyes firmly on the table in front of him. "I mean, I know it's not true, and not everything will magically get better but I didn't mind hearing it."

He risked a glance at Sandy, who seemed dumbstruck for once. "Okay," Sandy said at last.

"Yeah."

"Ryan…" Sandy trailed off. Ryan smiled slightly.

"Is this where you threaten me with a talk?"

Sandy frowned. "Wanna rephrase that?"

"Not particularly," Ryan answered. He felt drained suddenly, his quota of words exhausted for the day. "I just… How long do I have, until you tie me up to a chair and try to get answers out of me?"

Sandy considered the question seriously. "Not that long," he said.

Sandy still looked worried. Ryan didn't think he had seen the man relaxed even once, since That Night.

The Cohens, too, had taken a risk when Ryan had entered their lives. They had allowed themselves to care for him, accepting the fact that they could get hurt. They could lose Ryan, perhaps even more easily than they could lose Seth, because Ryan didn't share blood ties or sixteen years of history with them.

Feeling he owed Sandy at least a promise, Ryan nodded. "Okay. I'll… Yeah. Soon?"

Sandy nodded. "Soon."

Ryan nodded tiredly. "I'm sorry, too," he said.

Sandy looked at him askance.

Ryan shrugged. "I know I keep getting into these situations. I don't know what…" He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the statement before venturing too far into dangerous territories.

Sandy was shaking his head. "This isn't your fault in any way, shape or form," he said.

Ryan bit back a retort. The Cohens kept assuring him that it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't had a choice. And he knew that, but, while it may not have been his fault, it was certainly his responsibility. Maybe Oliver was the one who had caused the situation, but it was Ryan who had pulled that trigger—who had killed the guy. Perhaps, if he was less quick to rush to the rescue…

He frowned. "Perhaps" was just another way of saying "if only," and he had had enough of that this morning already.

"Yeah," he said, not feeling like explaining all that to Sandy.

Seth chose that moment to enter the kitchen and Ryan marveled again at his friend's timing. Whenever Seth entered a room, it was always at the best possible moment, or at the worst one. Never in betweens with Seth Cohen. And the worst part was that he didn't even seem to be doing it on purpose, most times.

"Hey guys!" Seth said. Ryan, who had read about, and agreed with, Stephen King's horror of the word "zestful," had to admit that in this case, it would have been appropriate to describe Seth.

Seth, who looked incredibly awake for a holiday morning before noon, bounced into the room, noisily retrieved a can of soda and a piece of cold pizza from the fridge, hopped around, then stood still for all of five seconds, before rounding on Ryan.

"So, revenge must be exacted."

Ryan hid a smile, and shook his head sadly. "Seth, Seth, Seth… Will you ever learn?"

"Oh, I have learned my lesson. Oh yes. My lesson I have learned. And now, my friend, you shall see the return of the Master—that's me—and you will be utterly defeated, and that smug look you always have when you use your ruse and sneaky powers to defeat me? It'll be wiped off." Seth paused briefly to breathe, before adding, with what Ryan thought was a touching and unrealistic conviction, "Wiped. Off."

He spun on his heels and stomped to the couch. Ryan thought he could almost _see_ the remnants of awkwardness and tension that had filled the room leave with Seth. He turned to Sandy. "I beat him last night."

"Right," Sandy said in a choked tone, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.

"He's not taking it as well as expected. Obviously."

Sandy chuckled. "Good luck."

Ryan nodded solemnly, blessing Seth and his uncanny ability to diffuse awkward situations, whether he planned to or not. "Thanks," he said.

And he joined Seth in front of the Play Station, determined to teach his friend a lesson.

Again.

* * *

Thanks everyone who reviewed! And I promise, next time, there will be Trey. And Luke. 


	8. Chapter 7 : The Question

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

_Chapter 7 : The Question_

Trey placed a collect call in the afternoon, after Ryan had wiped Seth's ass at Play Station again, and Seth had gone to his room to sulk, or, possibly, to develop a new strategy. Ryan was betting on the sulking.

In typical Trey fashion, the discussion began with a terse, "I thought we agreed not to talk again?"

"Sorry," Ryan mumbled, suddenly wondering why this had seemed like a good idea.

Apparently, prison hadn't made Trey slower to decipher Ryan's moods, and that one word was enough to set off all of his older brother's alarms. "Spill," Trey said.

So, Ryan—at first haltingly, then more quickly—filled Trey in on what had happened. He stuck to cold, manageable facts—Oliver's back story, the call from Marissa, the fight, the gunshot. Oliver's surprise as he died.

Trey huffed, "They're always surprised," before asking Ryan why he had called.

"I don't know," Ryan admitted.

And, in truth, he really didn't know what he wanted from Trey. Advice from a brother who had spent more time in jail than free since his fifteenth birthday? Reassurance? Comfort? It wasn't as if the Cohens didn't provide all that, and more.

"You don't know?"

"I really don't. I picked up the phone, and it was your number I dialed."

"The number of your incarcerated brother, who you haven't spoken to in more than a year?"

"Yeah."

"You're a weird kid."

Ryan let out a strangled laugh, wondering how his brother would react to Seth. "One day, I'll introduce you to my friend," he said.

"The kid who gave you the comic book for me?" Trey asked, seemingly unsurprised by the non sequitur.

"Yes."

The two brothers fell silent. "Kid?" Trey asked after a while.

"Yeah."

"I don't have much time left, so I'm just going to ask… You feel bad about killing that nutter?"

That was Trey, Ryan thought ruefully. Never one to beat around the bush. Or to use a modicum of tact.

"Yep." He hadn't admitted it to anyone yet, but then no one had asked him the question—they all kept saying that Ryan had done what he had to do, that he didn't have a choice, and while that may have been true, it didn't keep Ryan from feeling, well, bad. It didn't matter that he hadn't had a choice; circumstances hardly mattered when the end result was so devastating.

Ryan had always thought that he was doing the right thing by helping people. Now, he was beginning to doubt it. How many times had he made things worse, instead of helping? Would Luke have been involved in an accident if Ryan hadn't pressured him to break up with Julie? Would Seth have left his parents if Ryan hadn't tried to help Theresa?

Things were growing increasingly complicated. Back in Chino, there weren't that many consequences to consider. His actions then only affected himself, and sometimes his family, or Theresa. Now, there were so many people involved in his life, directly or not, that every decision he made always seemed to affect someone, if only by proxy.

"From what you said, you didn't have a choice," Trey pointed out, snapping Ryan out of his reverie.

"Yeah."

There was another silence, during which Trey probably used his older brother magical powers to read Ryan's mind, then, "What? Do you doubt that he would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first?"

Ryan's breath caught in his throat and he hung up on Trey, almost reflexively. He then spent five minutes trying to catch his breath, as if he had just played a lengthy soccer match, and another ten minutes sitting on his bed, dizzy and confused, wondering what the hell was happening to him, because this didn't strike him as a particularly normal reaction.

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Near the end of his first year in Newport, Ryan had found "his" spot on the beach—the place where he felt most at ease, the place where he went when he wanted some time alone, when he wanted to think. It was not far from the lifeguard tower where he had announced to the others his decision to go back to Chino, but far enough that he could sit there unnoticed once it was dark and most people had gone home. Ryan considered the place to be his own, always feeling slightly peeved when someone was occupying it, even though it was a public domain and he had no ground to feel territorial about it.

Thankfully, tonight, the place was free, and Ryan was sprawled on the beach, staring at the sunset and absently tracing circles in the sand next to his thigh. The sky was aflame as the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon line, and it was so beautiful that it took his breath away.

No matter how many times he saw this, Ryan would never get used to it. He had grown used to having an ocean nearby, but this, this pure beauty, it was still new to him.

It was soothing, and it helped him to forget the afternoon spent reading and doing school work, desperately trying not to think about Trey's question.

Near diner time, Ryan was finally feeling less shell-shocked, more able to process his talk with Trey. So, he warned the Cohens that he wanted to go for a walk, and wouldn't be home for diner. He didn't doubt Seth would find him eventually, but for now, he was alone, and was taking the opportunity to think, which was all he seemed to be doing this holiday, as Seth had remarked—except he hadn't put it that way.

"You're brooding, man!" he had said as Ryan was leaving.

"Thinking," Ryan had corrected.

"Brooding," Seth had insisted, and Ryan had resorted to using The Glare on him. It was always effective in shutting Seth up.

Most times, Ryan didn't mind his friend's verbal diarrhea. It helped to keep Ryan grounded, even when he didn't understand what Seth was saying.

Then, sometimes, it distracted him when he was trying to follow through a thought or to figure something out, or just to absorb something that had been said to him.

_"Do you doubt that he would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first?"_

And Trey had certainly given Ryan a lot to think about. Hence the need for solitude.

_"Do you doubt that he would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first?"_

Ryan wondered how the hell Trey did it. Certainly, Trey had always been able to read Ryan's mind—one of his rare talents, as a big brother—but still, they hadn't seen each other in months. How could his brother be so spot-on? Was Ryan that predictable?

Because Ryan did wonder if, perhaps, he hadn't been too quick to shoot, and he didn't want to wonder.

It might lead to other unpleasant questions.

It might make him wonder if his visceral fear of seeing someone he loved being hurt didn't make him too hasty to act. Ryan didn't want to think that he had taken a life for the sake of his not-so-white knight tendencies.

He sighed, frustrated. He should really call Trey back, before his brother panicked and called the Cohens. He was perfectly capable of doing it. Trey's protective tendencies were not as widespread as Ryan's, but he had always been a brother hen to Ryan.

"Great," Ryan sighed. He sensed a presence mere seconds before a can of soda materialized in front of his face.

"Should I be worried to find you sitting alone in the dark, muttering to yourself?"

Ryan raised his head and nodded at Luke, accepting the can. Luke lowered himself on the sand, sighing happily.

"I missed this place," he said.

Ryan opened his drink and took a gulp, shuddering as he thought about the ridiculous amount of sugar he was absorbing.

"Still claiming ownership of this spot, then?" Luke asked conversationally.

"Hm."

"And still as talkative?"

"Yeah."

Luke laughed. "Come on man, you can do better. I've seen you do better. Once or twice."

Ryan smiled.

"Where's your other half?" Luke asked.

"Please, tell me you're talking about a hypothetical girlfriend," Ryan said.

"Sorry. Seth? Long lost brother? Or whatever?"

Ryan shook his head. "Home. Eating. Or nursing his ego after his spectacular defeat at Play Station."

Luke chuckled. "Right." He opened his own can of soda.

For a while, they remained silent, sipping their drinks, watching the sky as the night fell.

"Summer sent me," Luke announced at last.

That surprised Ryan. "Yeah?"

"Yes. She seems to think that you need to talk. Because, and I'm quoting, Cohen is worried, and when Cohen is worried, he talks even more quickly, and it's not that she's interested in what he's saying, but she likes to at least understand him. Just in case. So, she sent me."

Ryan bit back the incredulous, "And I'm supposed to talk to you?" that wanted to escape. He did consider Luke a friend, amazingly enough, but that didn't make them close by any means. They talked sports, chicks and cars, and sometimes in all the manly bragging, they exchanged two lines on serious matters. They didn't have lengthy heart-to-hearts.

"I tried to explain to her that we're guys, and guys don't talk, but you know girls. And, well, Summer."

Ryan nodded silently.

"So, we can either sit here, in silence—believe me, after a few days spent with my two little brothers, I wouldn't mind—or we can, well…"

"Have a girls' talk?"

Luke choked on his drink. "When you put it that way."

Ryan focused on the ocean in front of him, Trey's question replaying itself.

"_Do you doubt that he would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first?_"

He let his thoughts wander, conscious of the unobtrusive, undemanding presence next to him.

Luke had been the only one to believe him about Oliver. And Ryan knew that a big part of it, if not all of it, had been due to Luke's feelings for Marissa, but whatever his reasons had been, it had been a huge help for Ryan to know that someone shared his suspicions.

"_Do you doubt that he would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first?_"

Oliver's history indicated that he was more likely to hurt himself than others. On the other hand, that gun at been pointed at Ryan—no doubt about that. And Oliver rushing Ryan with a knife had been pretty unambiguous, too.

Ryan sighed and put his empty can on the sand, making a mental note to pick it up when he left.

"Ryan?" Luke said.

"Why did you believe me about Oliver, that first time?"

He saw Luke gesture vaguely. "He was weird."

"Aside from that?"

"I don't know."

"I wondered, then, if it wasn't just that you were jealous of him and Marissa. Which would have been yet another sign that I was losing it."

Luke laughed without a sound. Ryan could see him shaking slightly from the corner of his eye. "Oh, I was jealous of him and Marissa, all right," Luke finally said. "I was jealous of you and Marissa, for that matter. But, I felt you were right, and there was something about him that wasn't quite right."

"Yeah." Ryan shook his head. "I knew he wasn't normal. But sometimes I wondered if everyone else wasn't right, you know? If I wasn't the one who was paranoid."

"Because when he drove the golf car straight at us, he was behaving normally," Luke said sarcastically.

Ryan picked up a handful of cold sand and let it filter through his fingers. "Oh, after a while, I usually remembered the golf car, yes. But for a few seconds, he had made me doubt myself." And now, it appeared that even dead, Oliver could still make Ryan second-guess himself. "_Just fucking wonderful_," Ryan thought.

Luke asked, "How did you know? After all, he played everyone." His voice took on a decidedly sarcastic tone as he added, "He even played Dr Kim—all-powerful, all-knowing Dr Kim."

Ryan thought. How had he known? "At the beginning," he said, "I was just jealous. He kept making me feel stupid. Uneducated." He fought the slight remnants of hurt, as he remembered Oliver doing his best to embarrass Ryan, and the way all the others had smiled tolerantly. Ryan could almost hear them thinking, "_Poor boy, coming from the bad part of town. No culture at all_."

"That fucker," Luke said. "But I didn't see it that way then. I mean, he just seemed cool."

Ryan shrugged. All these petty attempts to make Marissa see how insignificant and "lower class" Ryan was seemed unimportant in light of what had happened later. "Whatever," he said.

Because after the night club incident, there had been that increasing sensation of being in danger whenever Oliver was around. Nothing definitive, not until the weekend in Palm Springs, just a vague feeling that something wasn't right. "It was his eyes," Ryan told Luke. "He kept a straight face, but in his eyes… I could see it."

"No one else did," Luke pointed out.

Ryan shrugged, unwilling to tell Luke about the number of times he had picked up subtle clues and left his house in Chino, because something told him that now was not a good time to be around. Had it saved his life? Perhaps.

Better being too careful and looking paranoid than being hurt.

"Am I…" He trailed off. Luke waited, patiently, and Ryan wondered when his friend had become so good at listening. "Am I too quick to take action?" Ryan asked finally.

"What?"

"You were shot by Donnie," Ryan reminded him. "And perhaps, if I hadn't fought with him, he would have just left, and no one would have been hurt."

Luke seemed to take a moment to consider the idea, and Ryan turned a little to the side to face him. No matter how much their relationship had improved, there was a tacit agreement that allowed them to be honest with each other when one of them screwed up. Ryan hoped that several months of absence hadn't changed that.

"Perhaps Donnie would have freaked out, and instead of a lost bullet, everyone in the vicinity would have been hurt," Luke said.

"But we don't know that," Ryan insisted.

"Fine. Why did you fight with him?" Luke asked.

Ryan tried to remember the split-second decision process. Why hadn't he tried to talk more? Was it because, in Ryan's life, words had never done any good to diffuse a tense situation? Was it because he trusted his fists and his reflexes more than his powers of persuasion? Or because… "He was going to shoot," he said.

"Yeah." Luke took a sip of his soda. "I'm gonna take your word for it, because I wasn't observing the kid that well. I was too busy staring at the gun he was holding, and thinking, 'Oh shit!' But, if you say so… Well, good enough for me."

Ryan nodded. He didn't think he had made a mistake that night.

Which only left him—

"Was Oliver going to… you know?" Luke asked.

Ryan thought. Oliver's words, his undying obsession with Marissa, and the fact that Ryan was the one Marissa had called. No wonder Oliver still saw him as a rival, even though Marissa had said they had broken up.

Ryan saw Oliver's body, losing blood.

Then, Marissa took Oliver's place.

Even if Ryan hadn't come when Marissa had called, Oliver certainly would have killed himself, and Marissa. He hadn't been listening to anyone but himself That Night.

Ryan saw the knife, heading toward him. He couldn't even remember if it had seemed fast or if time had slowed, like it did in movies. All he remembered was seeing the knife, still red with Oliver's blood, rushing toward him.

His eyes were burning. He rested his arms on his knees and buried his head in the crook of his elbows. "Shit," he said.

Luke didn't reply. They sat in silence for a while.

"I'm sorry," Luke said at last.

"Everyone keeps saying that," Ryan replied, his voice muffled by his sweater.

"You okay?"

"Everyone keeps saying that too."

"It was a shitty thing to happen."

Ryan laughed briefly, a bitter laugh that sounded embarrassingly like a sob. "Understatement of the century."

"So? Are you okay?"

Ryan rubbed his eyes on his sleeve before raising his head. He spotted a blinking light in the sky and followed it, not daring to look at Luke. "No. I killed someone. And I don't think I'm going to get over it any time soon."

Apparently, Luke didn't have anything else to say to that.

There was another good thing about Luke; he seemed to have learned that when he didn't have anything to say, remaining silent was the best course of action.

88888888

Seth joined them almost an hour later. In the meantime, Luke had gone to fetch a blanket, more sodas and chips from his car. He and Ryan were eating the last ones when Seth announced his presence in his typical manner. "Hey, there's a party I wasn't invited to? Wait. I'm never invited."

He collapsed next to Ryan, and waved his hand at Luke. "Hey, man." He took the last unopened soda and helped himself. "You missed one hell of a dinner, Ryan. And the 'rentsare worried. They didn't say anything, but I'm good at spotting clues."

Ryan felt an incredulous laugh bubbling under the surface, thinking of Anna and Summer, and Seth's usual tendency to keep on talking until he had dug his grave so low he was close to emerging in Australia.

Luke didn't have that problem, and collapsed on the blanket, laughing.

Seth looked at him disdainfully. "I am." He turned to Ryan. "When are you planning to go back?"

Ryan lay down, watching the stars above. "Soon."

"Okay. I'm just saying, the 'rentsare worried. Not frantic yet, but quietly worried."

Ryan tuned out Seth's rambling. Luke whispered, "I liked the quiet."

"Welcome to my world," Ryan replied.

88888888

When Seth and Ryan entered the kitchen, Kirsten and Sandy were watching TV—Kirsten curled up in Sandy's arms. They were arguing quietly about the movie—an old black and white thing Ryan couldn't possibly identify.

Sandy spotted them first. "Hey! The kids are back!"

"Yeah, so you can stop sitting on each other's laps and keep your distance," Seth said. "This is so detrimental to my mental health."

"You'll survive," Kirsten said without missing a beat. "Did you eat?" she asked Ryan.

"Yeah," he said. He didn't mention that what he had eaten was made of so many artificial ingredients, it would probably survive a few centuries unharmed.

"Good."

She detangled herself from Sandy and sat more properly. Seth went to the couch and flopped between them, forcing them to move even farther apart, and Ryan smiled as they glared at Seth.

"Do you want to watch TV?" Sandy asked Ryan.

"No, thanks."

Kirsten met his gaze. "Trey called," she said.

Ryan bit back a growl. He should have known his brother wouldn't let it rest. "I'll call him back tomorrow," he said.

She looked at Sandy, and nodded. "Tomorrow. Okay. You're sure you don't want to—"

"No, I'm beat. I should go sleep." There was a pointed pause, then he shrugged. "'Night," he said.

A chorus of "good night" answered him and he left the room, praying that his brother hadn't worried them too much.

* * *

Thanks everyone for the nice reviews:-) 


	9. Chapter 8 : The Atwood Philosophy

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 8 : The Atwood Philosophy**

Ryan sat up with a gasp, the blast of the gunshot still echoing in his mind.

This abrupt way of awakening had become so usual to him that it only took him a few seconds to remember that he was safe, at the Cohens', and that Oliver was dead—and buried by now.

The sun was streaming in through the half-open blinds. Ryan squinted against the brightness. He had never been prone to nightmares, which was a small blessing considering the life he'd had, but he was making up for lost time this week.

On the plus side, this time he hadn't dreamt about the cops shooting him when they entered Marissa's room. That specific nightmare had come earlier in the week, and it had been particularly unsettling. Ryan was sure he would break into a cold sweat every time he saw a uniform for months now. "_Tell me again about Pavlov dogs_," he thought.

He shook himself. He needed a shower. Then he'd find Seth, and let his babbling erase the bad memories and the last remnants of the dream.

Ryan freed himself from the covers and headed to the bathroom, trying to keep his mind firmly focused on the task at hand, and not on Oliver's eyes, and the horror in them when he'd died.

8888888

Kirsten sighed in relief when Sandy marched into her office. The morning had been difficult—her first day back, after what had been an exhausting vacation. It seemed that no one had dared to take the slightest initiative in her absence, especially since her dad wasn't around either.

After a morning spent returning calls and reading the latest reports, she was more than ready for a break.

"Tell me it's noon," she begged when Sandy's cheerful "Hi, honey!" tore her attention away from the contract she was studying.

"It's noon," Sandy said, smiling widely. He held up the containers in his hands. "I thought we could eat here. Unless you want to go out."

She shook her head. "Oh, I'm too tired to move."

"Excellent." He dropped into a chair, and they shared the food while making small talk.

Kirsten loved her job, even when it was exasperating. It was challenging, it was interesting, it gave her wonderful opportunities to satisfy her competitive side, and she appreciated her home even more after a long day at the office.

Now, if only first days back weren't such a pain…

Sandy nodded when she said so. "Ah, yes, the universal first day curse," he said.

"Yeah." She took a mouthful of chicken. "I wish I was less tired."

"The last few days have been hard," Sandy acknowledged.

"Tell me about it."

Sandy looked almost as tired as she felt. "Is it me or is there always something happening?" he asked.

She took her time to answer. "I guess so."

"It seems to always be one crisis after the other, in our jobs and at home…" He sighed. "When it's not your father, it's my mother. Then it's Seth and his girls or Ryan and his need to save people. I mean, we keep trying to make him relax around us, and every time he seems more at ease, something happens, and we're back to square one."

She looked at him disbelievingly. "Either you're exaggerating," she said, "Or you've totally forgotten what square one was like."

At Sandy's doubtful look, she added, "Honey, he's neither as quiet nor as reserved as he used to be. Not even after what happened. He's doing the best he can." She reached over her desk and took Sandy's hand in her own, squeezing briefly. "And so are we."

"And yet, we're not doing a very good job," Sandy said.

Kirsten gritted her teeth. Sandy had been particularly difficult since the night Oliver had died—always second-guessing everything he did, everything he said, and pretty much everything that had happened since Ryan had entered their lives. At first, she had thought he was just reacting to Oliver's death and to the fact that Ryan could very well have been killed, but she was beginning to think that there was more to it than that.

Time to get to the root of the problem, she decided. "Sandy, what is it really about?"

"What do you mean, 'what is it about?'" Sandy asked indignantly. "Have you been paying attention to what's been happening?"

Kirsten nodded. "Yes, I have," she said. "And what I've noticed is that the situation could have been a thousand times worse for all concerned. I haven't seen anything warranting such…" She gestured vaguely in Sandy's direction. "Things are not so bad. Ryan is doing reasonably well, under the circumstances. You said yourself that he talked to you. And we know he had a long discussion with Luke." She took a breath and finished, "So, what is it really about?"

There was a long silence, while Sandy's face went from indignant to blank, then to sad before settling on scowling. "He was supposed to be safe," Sandy said at last. "He wasn't supposed to be put into this kind of situation here. When we took him in, I wanted to give him a break from the violence—domestic or otherwise."

He stood up and began to pace the office. "There were fistfights, he almost died in a fire, there have been three gun incidents that we know about, Marissa and alcohol, Marissa and drugs, and that's just the stuff he told us about. He spent his summer working on a construction site to support his pregnant girlfriend, for God's sake!" Sandy stopped wearing the carpet thin and turned to Kirsten. "How is this life different than the one he had before?"

"A great deal different, I suspect," she said reasonably. "But you'd have to ask Ryan if you want to be sure."

Sandy sighed. "Somehow, I don't think he's ready for that discussion," he said.

"Probably not," Kirsten acknowledged. There were lots of discussions Ryan wasn't ready for. Everyone knew that—including Ryan, Kirsten suspected. Sandy was right—there _was_ always a crisis to deal with.

"Things will calm down, eventually," she said. "They have to."

888888

Ryan called Trey back while Seth was looking for a DVD to watch—which would take a while, since Seth didn't seem to have any idea _what_ he wanted to watch.

In the meantime, Ryan listened as Trey ranted and insulted him every two words for hanging up the previous day. Once Ryan was sure Trey had finished, he said, "Sorry."

He heard Trey breathe heavily on the other side of the line. "How are you?" Trey asked then, his voice calmer.

Ryan shrugged automatically, seeing no need to revisit his reaction to their last talk. "Okay, I guess."

"Yeah. I'm… I was maybe a little blunt…"

Ryan almost smiled at Trey's flustered mumblings. "It's okay," he said. He almost told Trey that he hadn't been expecting tact when he had called but he decided against it. "Why did you have to call the Cohens?" he asked instead. Ryan couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious as he wondered what his brother and his foster family might have talked about.

"I was calling you," Trey answered dryly, and Ryan heard a muttered "little fucker" added for good measure.

"Oh," he said.

"But since you weren't there, one of them took the call, and we talked a little. I asked how you were. Sue me for being worried."

Ryan chuckled. "That won't be necessary."

They discussed some more—a few chosen words, long silences and grunts, because the Atwood brothers had long since devised their own communication method.

"You've got to stop feeling guilty for everything like that; it's getting annoying," was the brunt of Trey's message.

"That's what the Cohens keep telling me," Ryan said. "Without the annoying part."

"How about you listen to your older and wiser, huh?"

Ryan snickered. "Right."

"You did what you had to," Trey said. "The Good Boy to the rescue, as usual."

"I don't know about the good boy," Ryan admitted.

"Yeah, right," Trey said. "You've always been so damn perfect. Ma's good little boy, teacher's pet when you were a kid, always saving the damsel in distress… You're the first nice Atwood man in generations, Ry."

Ryan closed his eyes, letting Trey's words wash over him. The Cohens, too, seemed to think he was a nice person. It was implied in the fact that Sandy had taken him in, in the fact that Kirsten had deemed him "good enough" to be a part of her family.

They seemed convinced that he was just a good kid they had saved from a bad life.

They didn't know about the bottomless anger that used to fill Ryan back in Chino, that anger boiling just beneath the surface, always threatening to erupt.

They didn't know about the frustration he still felt at never being able to catch a fucking break. Ryan wasn't a whiner by any means, but every once in a while, he wondered what he had done to deserve such a crappy life—what he had done to deserve a past that was always following him, always coloring his reactions, his perceptions, his feelings.

Had he deliberately killed Oliver?

No.

He hadn't even wanted the guy to be hurt. He had wanted Oliver out of his life, not injured.

Not dead.

Would he be able to kill in cold blood?

He hoped not. He hoped he wasn't that kind of person. But sometimes, back in Chino, when he had looked at the losers who screwed his mother, who took her and Ryan's money to buy their booze, who hit him, he had felt so close to snapping, to losing control.

Granted, Ryan's life was better now. People in Newport may be annoying, but they hardly deserved Ryan's hatred—or of his anger.

However, Ryan hadn't forgotten what blind rage felt like. That hadn't been what he had felt That Night—what he had felt then was more like blind panic.

But that had been That Night.

What about next time?

What would it take to make him lose control?

He knew that if told, the Cohens would reassure him. Tell him he was good. Tell him he was better, stronger than he thought.

They didn't know what Ryan was capable of. Ryan himself didn't know what he was capable of.

And he was terrified of finding out.

"Ryan?" Trey insisted.

Ryan shook his head, annoyed at his brother—and also vaguely reassured. Perhaps he would lose control someday and do something he would regret—cross another line. But, for today, if Trey didn't think Ryan had screwed up, if Luke and the Cohens didn't think Ryan had screwed up, then perhaps, just perhaps, he hadn't.

Ryan sighed. Suddenly, it occurred to him that the reason he had called Trey was the same reason he had talked to Luke. Like Luke, when Trey thought that Ryan had screwed up, he said so. Clearly, unambiguously, bluntly.

Trey told Ryan the truth, not what Ryan needed to hear. And, unlike the Cohens, Trey knew all about rage and frustration, and about needing to vent, needing to punch things and people to avoid being consumed. If Trey didn't think Ryan had crossed that border yet, then Ryan was willing to defer to his judgment.

"Yeah," Ryan said at last.

"It sucks that it happened, bro', but then life sucks as a rule."

There it was—the Atwood philosophy, short and to the point. Life sucks. Deal with it. Ryan had never found the thought particularly comforting, but he had never been able to convince Trey, or even himself, that life was wonderful. "Yeah, I know," he said.

Seth came down from his room, waving a DVD box enthusiastically, and ranting, "I found it! This is perfect. Come on, man, we'll complete your audiovisual education. You'll love it."

"Oh boy," Ryan muttered.

Trey snickered. "That's the strange kid?"

"Uh huh."

"Good luck."

"I may need it," Ryan said, warily eyeing the box in Seth's hands.

"Is that your brother?" Seth asked.

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Yep."

"Oh. Er, tell him I said hi?"

"He can hear you, Seth," Ryan pointed out. "You're like two feet from me. I'm calling Chino, not New Zealand."

"Right."

Trey was laughing on the other side of the line. "I'll go," he said. "Take care."

"You too," Ryan said.

There was a small pause, during which all Ryan could hear on the line was Trey's breathing. Then Trey hung up. Ryan smiled. His brother would never have said so, but that small pause, in Trey-Talk, meant something like, "Glad you're still alive and stay that way."

And the truth was, as much as Ryan felt bad about killing someone, as much as he suspected that he would always remember That Night, he was glad to be alive too.

That was yet another thing he had spent a lot of time thinking about.

That gun being waved in his face had made him realize that he didn't want to die. There were still pretty girls to meet, things to learn, books to finish, stories to hear, people to see again. Life may suck, and be unfair, but there were props, too.

Seth was looking at him uncertainly. "We can do that later," he offered.

Ryan shook his head. "No way," he said. "It's fine. I just needed to talk to him."

"He called the 'rents," Seth said. "They didn't tell me why."

"Good for them," Ryan said, with an I-know-something-you-don't smile.

"Oh. And now you're going to hold on to that information, and I'll have to badger you, and then you'll glare, and I'll shiver, and I'll—"

Ryan cut him off, wondering how Seth could talk so much, so fast, all the time. "I hung up on him while we were talking about Oliver. I guess he was worried." He took the box from Seth's hands. "Babylon 5?" he said, eyebrows raised. "I didn't know you were into Sci-Fi shows."

Ryan braced himself as Seth took a deep pre-lecture breath. "I'm usually not. And it's a good thing, 'cause that way, you have your thing with all the geekiness and nerdiness of science-fiction, and, indeed, science itself, and I have my thing, with the graphic novels, which makes us unique individuals. But, anyway, this is a great story. The story of people who don't get along, but must learn to—"

Ryan raised a finger to interrupt him. "Let me guess, they must learn to work together and to look past their differences in order to save the world," he said.

"Oh, you know the show?"

Ryan laughed. "I'm from Chino, not Mars," he said. "I didn't really watch it, but I heard of it, yes." He didn't add that even if he hadn't, he'd still have been able to guess, because Seth seemed to be addicted to this particular kind of story.

"Well, let me introduce you to this wonderful, epic tale then," Seth said, leading the way to the couch.

Ryan followed, amused. "I don't think I've done anything but laze around this holiday," he said.

"You deserve it," Seth replied. "Besides, it's the last break we'll have before the Finals Of Doom."

Ryan groaned. "You know, I had almost forgotten about that."

Seth fumbled with the remote, and found the beginning of the first episode. "If that's what it takes to forget," he said, "I'm almost happy I didn't."

Ryan grunted in agreement.

"Almost," Seth said, as he sat back.

Ryan spent the next two hours absorbing all the knowledge Seth had gathered on Babylon 5—and, by extension, science-fiction shows, the way they were perceived by the general public, and how Sci-Fi related to comic books, as did everything in life.

It was only when Sandy came back from work that Ryan realized he hadn't thought about Oliver since his call to Trey.

"Good afternoon?" Sandy asked.

Seth took a breath and paused in his babbling to greet his father, then went on. Ryan smiled and nodded. "Great," he said. Meaning it.

* * *

Many thanks for the nice reviews! -- Keep them coming ;) 


	10. Chapter 9 : The Gathering

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 9 : The Gathering**

Strangely enough, when Ryan woke up at seven in the morning, emerging slowly from a deep sleep, it took him a moment to figure out what was different.

He felt relaxed, a little drowsy, and he lolled a little in bed, enjoying the sensation. Then, it occurred to him that for the first time since That Night, he hadn't had any nightmares.

There had merely been one disturbing dream in which Oliver had apologized, said he hadn't meant to hurt anyone, then had begun to glow—Ryan was blaming that one on the Babylon 5 orgy.

But other than that incident, the night had been peaceful. No gunshot, no blood. No cops.

Ryan stretched lazily, then regretfully got to his feet, yawning. It seemed almost criminal to officially declare that his first good night since Oliver had died was over. It was almost as if leaving his bed, and leaving the night behind, meant that the nightmares would come back next time he slept.

Ryan shook the superstitious thought, and headed to the bathroom.

Last night hadn't been an exception, he thought.

It had been a sign that things were slowly going back to normal.

As always, bad days would eventually give way to better days, then to good days. And the good days would finally outnumber the bad days, until the next crisis struck.

88888

Ryan stumbled into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed. He envied Seth's ability to sleep until noon during the holidays. Ryan had always been a light sleeper and an early riser, and he was always slightly amazed when he met someone who could sleep the morning away.

Sandy was seated on a stool, drinking his coffee. They exchanged listless greetings as Ryan selected a box of cereal.

"Bad night?" Sandy asked.

Ryan grunted and sat heavily, trying to force his brain to kick into gear, so that he'd look vaguely coherent. "No, actually," he finally answered.

Sandy looked surprised. "Oh," he said.

Ryan smiled and shrugged, as if to say, "Go figure." It was a little disappointing to still feel sluggish after having slept well, Ryan thought. But then, he supposed that one good night would never be enough to make up for a dozen bad ones.

Sandy finished his coffee and rose up, looking only marginally better than Ryan felt. He put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, saying, "If you want to talk." He never finished the sentence anymore. Neither did Kirsten. Sometimes, Ryan felt bad that they always had to repeat it.

"Yeah."

Sandy gave his shoulder a squeeze and left.

Ryan enjoyed a full four seconds of solitude before Kirsten entered the kitchen.

"You just missed Sandy," he said.

She smiled. "That's okay."

She took a good look at him before pouring herself a cup of coffee, opened her mouth as if to ask something, closed it and smiled.

"What?" Ryan asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "I…" Again, she hesitated, then shook her head again more firmly. "I need to go. See you tonight?"

Ryan nodded, nonplussed.

"Right," Kirsten said. She smiled again and left, leaving Ryan alone.

Ryan stared at his cereal, feeling puzzled and strangely vulnerable.

8888888

Kirsten was reading on the patio when Ryan approached her, late in the afternoon. They had the house to themselves for a couple of hours, and Kirsten needed some quiet after a difficult day at the office—her dad was back, and he was in top form.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ryan walking toward her hesitantly, two bottles of soda in hand.

She raised her head as he came to a stop in front of her.

"I give up," Ryan said, offering her one of the bottle before sitting next to her.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"It's been bugging me all day," he said, sounding put-out. "So, okay. What did you want to ask me this morning, before you left?"

Kirsten took a sip of her drink and stared out at the ocean for a while. Ryan was sitting stock-still beside her, obviously braced for the worst. "Are you still mad at us, for not believing you the first time Oliver was around?" she asked. She turned to face Ryan. "That's what I wanted to ask you." And she almost had, because they had been tip-toeing around the subject long enough, and this tentativeness around the topic was becoming ridiculous. And frustrating.

But then, she had realized that Ryan was barely awake, and would undoubtedly interpret her question as an attempt to manipulate him. Which, Kirsten admitted, wouldn't have been so far from the truth.

"It's been bugging you?" she asked, smiling, when Ryan didn't answer her question.

He shrugged self-consciously.

She laughed softly. "So that's what it takes to make you volunteer for a talk? Arouse your curiosity, then let you stew for a few hours?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "If you're too tired," he said, "We can do it later. I didn't mean to bother you, but I was just…"

"Curious?" He looked as self-conscious as he ever had, and it suddenly occurred to her that Ryan was actually volunteering to talk, and that it must have taken a lot of courage for him to approach her. She could see the way his body tensed and relaxed, as if he was making a conscious effort to stay seated instead of backing off. To ease the tension, she said in a teasing tone, "I wouldn't miss an opportunity to have one of our infamous Cohen talks with you."

He shook his head. "You make it sound as if you need to sit on me to talk to me," he complained. "I'm not _that_ bad."

"I know," she said. "You're just quieter than the other teenager who lives here."

She could still remember cornering Ryan, shortly before their first Chrismukkah together. She had told him that he could always talk to her, or to Sandy, that he should feel comfortable, and all the time, Ryan had looked down and nodded. When she had finally paused to catch her breath, he had thrown in, "Kirsten, you and Sandy are going to have to accept the fact that I just need fewer words than Seth. He rambles, he rants, he goes on irrelevant tangents, and he uses ten words where one would be enough. I just, I say what I want to say. Promise." He had looked so earnest and desperate to convince her, that Kirsten had almost dragged him into a reassuring hug. But it had been too early in their relationship, and Ryan had been nervous enough.

Ryan snorted, bringing Kirsten back to the present. "How would you have dealt with two Seths?" he asked.

"Duct tape," she said in all seriousness.

There was a comfortable silence, which Kirsten loathed to break. But she needed to know. "You didn't answer my question," she said. "Sandy and I were wondering if—" She thought for a minute, wondering how to put it. "We're willing to give you as much time as you need, you know that."

He nodded.

"But we're wondering if the fact that we didn't listen to you the last time Oliver was involved was making you reluctant to come to us now."

"It was long ago, Kirsten."

"And it happened at the worst possible moment, when we were finally starting to feel more at ease around each other," she said. "I can tell you that many people felt awful—but none more so than the three of us."

Kirsten and Sandy had discussed it at length several times already. "I had him talking, damn it," Sandy had once told her. "It took some convincing, but he was finally going to tell me what was happening. And two words into his explanation, I cut him off and went all lawyerly on him."

And the window of opportunity had closed, and they had gone back to the uneasy cohabitation, until Oliver had finally gone too far.

"You know," Ryan said, "Thinking back on it, I realize how I must have sounded. How it must have looked." He smiled sadly. "No wonder no one believed me."

She frowned, but before she could tell him that he wasn't the one to blame, he added, "What I'm trying to say is, I should have tried harder. I just didn't know how to."

"You did everything you could."

He shook his head, his eyes taking on a darker shade of blue. "Breaking into the school? I mean, all I had was a bad feeling, but I learned to trust those early. But, I refused to listen too. I panicked. I saw what he was trying to do, and I panicked."

"We didn't see that. And perhaps, if we had trusted you…"

He frowned. "Yes, well, if I had been clearer… If I had explained that I trusted Marissa, that it was Oliver who was in love with her, not the other way around, perhaps you wouldn't have been so quick to dismiss it." Then he snorted. "Although, didn't the fact that I asked _Julie Cooper_ for help set off _any_ alarms?"

Kirsten laughed with him. "It should have; you're right."

"I'm mad at myself," Ryan admitted. "Because I saw what he was doing. And I still allowed him to get at me; I still let him manipulate me. I knew I couldn't afford to lose it, and I did anyway." He had a wry smile. "Trey would have kicked my ass. Big time."

"Would he?"

He tilted his head to the side, as he often did when he was weighing his words. "Yes. But… He would also have kicked Oliver's. No questions asked."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

Ryan smiled. "It's okay. It's over now, and really, if anyone screwed up, everyone did."

For a moment, he looked frighteningly exhausted. Kirsten wanted to take all his problems away, but being a mother often meant being helpless. "At least we talked about it," she said. "We should have long ago. You didn't seem to want to talk about it at all, so we didn't insist."

"I didn't want to talk about it," Ryan confirmed. "What was done was done, and I didn't see how talking would help. And hey, at least, you didn't joke about it, like Marissa did."

Kirsten grimaced. "Ouch," she said compassionately.

Ryan rolled his eyes and grimaced. "You can say that again," he said.

Kirsten considered him a moment. "Do you think that talking won't help in this case either?" she asked.

He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. "No," he said. "I just don't know where to begin."

"How are you doing?" she asked. "That would be a fairly good starting point, I think."

He sighed. "I don't know. I'm still mad at Marissa, a little." Kirsten gritted her teeth, causing Ryan to add, "Not because she called. But did you know he had contacted her? They had seen each other, they were writing to each other."

Kirsten shook her head in dismay. "I didn't know," she said. "I can't say I'm that surprised." It was such a Marissa thing to do, to write to the person who was obsessed with her and had once held her at gunpoint. Had the girl ever managed to avoid a sticky situation?

Ryan was studying Kirsten, so she stopped thinking about Marissa, because Ryan's powers of observation sometimes bordered on telepathy and she didn't want him to pick up on what she was thinking. "I am mad at her," she admitted. "It may be irrational, but call it mother's prerogative. She put you in danger."

"Actually, Oliver did," Ryan pointed out. "He's the reason we're having this discussion in the first place, he's the reason I'm feeling lousy, he's the reason you and Sandy and even my friends walk on eggshells around me, and even dead, he manages to screw things up."

They fell silent. Ryan was staring at the half-empty bottles while Kirsten studied him. He raised his eyes. "Was that an acceptable Cohen talk?" he asked lightly, effectively conveying that he didn't plan on saying more just now.

Kirsten reached over and patted his hand. "It was very good," she said, following his lead. "I'll just say this one last time; I'm sorry we didn't listen last time, and I promise, if you come to us this time, we'll do better."

A myriad of emotions flashed in his eyes, but he didn't reply. He got up, stood there a moment, obviously psyching himself up for something. Kirsten waited, curious. After a while, Ryan nodded to himself, leaned down and kissed her cheek lightly, before heading to the poolhouse without looking back. Which was just as well, since Kirsten suddenly developed a bad case of pollen allergies, and spent five minutes blinking back unexpected tears.

88888888

Ryan was reading when Sandy entered the poolhouse, looking focused and determined.

Ryan looked at him warily, praying there wasn't yet another conversation waiting to happen. There were only so many words he could deliver on any given day.

Fortunately, amazingly, Sandy wasn't there to talk.

Sandy was just there to say that Seth had rounded "everyone" up, and they were coming over for supper. "So if you feel like company…"

Ryan pondered the question. He hadn't seen many people these last few days. Only the Cohens, Luke and Marissa. He hadn't felt the need for more company, hadn't felt ready to talk, or to be sociable.

Basically, he had taken some time out from the world, until he was ready to face it again. The Cohens had been incredibly obliging, he now realized. Not only had they avoided pushing him to go out, they had even encouraged him to do what he thought was best.

He supposed it was time to declare the time out over.

He needed to get back in the world sometime. Probably better to do it here, where he could retire to the safety of his room if things got to be too much. And he doubted they would—his friends were not pushy by nature. Nosy, yes, but not pushy.

"Yeah, sure" he told Sandy. The relief on the man's face was almost as comical as it was touching. It made Ryan feel glad that he had decided to join the others.

"How do you feel?" Sandy asked. "No grand declarations, just give me a little something."

Ryan refrained from telling Sandy that he could always ask Kirsten for a transcript of their discussion. It would have been unfair—Sandy was just as worried as Kirsten was, and he deserved something. "I called Trey," he announced.

Sandy frowned, as if trying to figure out what that statement had to do with his question.

"He asked me…" Ryan took a deep breath. "He asked me if I doubted Oliver would have killed me, if I hadn't killed him first."

Sandy's face instantly took on an alarming shade of red. Ryan hastened to add, "He wasn't very tactful when he asked it, but I think I needed to hear it."

"Why?"

"Because… I've had a strange life, Sandy."

Sandy nodded. Waited.

"Three weeks ago, I'd have told you that I'd never be able to kill someone."

Sandy intervened. "You didn't kill him, Ryan. You didn't have a choice."

"I may not have had a choice, but I did kill him," Ryan replied. "And… I don't know. I was wondering if maybe there was another option that I didn't see."

"There wasn't," Sandy said. "Kirsten and I could have told you that."

"I know," Ryan said.

"Then why didn't you ask us immediately?"

Ryan shrugged. "It's your job to say stuff like that to me," he said. He felt his cheeks burn and wondered what the hell was happening—he _never _blushed. "I think I've grown used to having you in my corner," he added.

He still cherished this feeling of having someone who would look out for his best interests, without wanting anything in payment. Someone who would comfort him without needing anything in return.

"Oh," Sandy said, his voice weak.

"I guess I wanted brutal honesty."

"Was Trey brutal enough?" Sandy asked.

"I could always count on Trey for that, if nothing else," Ryan deadpanned. "I didn't mean to keep you in the dark, okay? I just didn't know what to say. I didn't even know what I wanted, until I called Trey. I don't analyze everything I do, you know."

Sandy smiled. "Not the way we do it?"

"Well…"

Sandy laughed. "Okay," he said.

"Now, have I talked enough for the day?" Ryan asked sarcastically as he got to his feet.

After a brief moment of thought, Sandy nodded. "I suppose so, yes."

"Thank God," Ryan muttered, not entirely joking, as he made his way to the house, Sandy trailing behind him.

88888888

To his surprise, Ryan had a great time. Summer was in top form, arguing with Seth over pretty much everything he said. Luke whispered to Ryan, at some point, "These two will _so_ get married."

Ryan privately agreed.

Luke and Seth played Grand Theft Auto, and Ryan snarked that the game designers didn't have any idea what they were talking about. Naturally, Seth challenged him, and Ryan beat him soundly. "Do you seriously think you or a video game can best my car stealing abilities?" he asked.

"You were busted," Summer pointed out.

Ryan shrugged. "Well, yeah." After all this time, and now that his probation was officially over, he could joke about it. A little.

There was a lull in the conversation, as every teenager happily munched on chips.

After a few minutes, Seth broke the quiet. "Why didn't Marissa come?"

Luke shrugged. "She didn't feel like hanging out," he said. The way he was carefully avoiding to look in Ryan's direction was a dead give away.

"Meaning, she doesn't want to hang out with me," Ryan said.

"She feels guilty," Luke said. "She said she shouldn't have called you."

Ryan knew that Marissa didn't feel bad because she had called as much as because she had brought the situation upon herself in the first place. He wasn't about to say so to Luke, though. He shrugged. "I did tell her it was cool."

"You know Marissa," Luke replied. "She's upset. She's been upset for a while, really." He frowned. "I used to think it was me."

Ryan sighed. "It's everything," he said. "Her parents, you, me, booze, drugs, Oliver, too much money, then not enough, then too much again…"

"She's had it tough," Luke agreed.

Ryan thought that pretty much everyone in this room had had it tough—Luke and his dad, Summer and her absent parents, Seth and his lonely childhood. Kirsten had lost her mother and had a bastard as a father. Sandy had had an absent mother, and didn't speak with his siblings anymore.

And yet, none of them were wallowing in self-pity and drinking themselves into a stupor at the slightest provocation.

One of Ryan's teachers had once explained that some people always misspelled some words, no matter how many times they had been corrected. "Think of it as the mental fingerprints of writers," he had said.

Just as some people were incapable to do crossword puzzles. Or to guess the answer of a riddle. Or to understand algebra. Or, in Ryan's case, symbolism in Russian authors. Blind spots, things that the brain couldn't process, no matter how much effort was put into it.

Ryan thought the same reasoning could easily be applied to relationships.

He had once been convinced that he was the one who caused his mother to drink. Now that he could look at her from a certain distance, he recognized that she had been much like Marissa—lost, unable to change, unable to accept help, because in her head, it wasn't her fault, her responsibility. Other people were responsible for her problems. Never her.

He shook his head. And now that he could watch Marissa from a distance, he recognized the pattern. He hoped she would fare better than his mother, hoped she would realize soon enough that she was throwing her life away.

"You're brooding," Seth said, startling him.

"Thinking," he countered, and he forced a smile. "It's fine."

Summer studied him for a while, then said, "Well, it's a beautiful night, and it's almost the end of the holiday. There's a party on the beach. Let's go."

She got to her feet and marched to the door, barely pausing long enough to check that everyone was following.

"You up to it?" Seth asked.

Ryan groaned. "A party? With music, and happy people, and probably fights?" Seth waited in silence, smirking. "Why not?" Ryan said.

Summer was right.

It _was_ a beautiful night.


	11. Chapter 10 : The Chasm

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Many, many thanks to Joey51, who beta'd this for me!

* * *

**Chapter 10 : The Chasm**

Ryan took a long shower, hoping it would help him to relax.

He lay down on his bed, snuggling under the covers, making himself comfortable.

He closed his eyes. And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Half an hour later, still wide awake, Ryan began to wonder who he was kidding.

He had known, from the minute he had come back from the party, that the night would be a long and frustrating attempt at catching a few hours of sleep. He was simply too wired to rest, and there was no denying the fact that he was going to need hours to be able to unwind.

He sighed, rolled over, exasperated, and damned Summer and her bright ideas to hell.

"_There's a party on the beach. Let's go_," she'd said. It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea at the time.

And sure, nothing bad had happened—no one had died, no one had been shot or stabbed or beaten.

It had just been awkward, strained, full of whispering people, of sideways glances and forced cheerfulness.

Ryan supposed he should have excepted that. In fact, he _had_ expected that—it was part of the reason why he hadn't left the Cohens' house for two weeks.

Ryan had always felt slightly different from people his age. He had been forced to become an adult fairly early in his life. Living with undependable people had taught him to rely only on himself, to make decisions without an adult perspective. Until that August night when he and Trey had stolen that car, Ryan had mostly kept his own counsel and hadn't minded doing so. After all, a mother dating scumbags like AJ probably wouldn't have had good advice to give him anyway.

Emotionally, Ryan knew he still had a lot to learn. He didn't know how to trust people, how to accept help, how to sit back and let someone else take charge. As far as dating and relationships in general went, he was as clueless as the next boy.

The Cohens had given him a chance to be a kid for a few more years. Ryan wasn't alone to make huge, life-changing decisions anymore. But he had been an adult before, and try as he might, he couldn't be as laid-back as his friends seemed to be.

Most kids in Newport had money and a family to fall back on. When they had problems, their parents were there, for moral support or to sign checks.

Ryan didn't have anyone. If the Cohens ever decided that they'd had enough and threw him out, Ryan would have only himself to rely on.

From day one, Ryan had felt different from these rich kids. His experiences with money, with family, with drugs and violence and sex, were so different it was almost laughable. Even as he got to know Seth and Summer, Luke and Marissa, Ryan could still feel a chasm between them.

The chasm had never seemed wider than this night, though.

No one had said anything about Oliver. Not Ryan's friends, who had pretended everything was just as it was before. Not Ryan's vaguely friendly acquaintances, who had nodded and smiled nervously before leaving him alone. Not even the people who still resented him for existing—the bad boy who dared go to their school and breathe the same air they did—who had kept their distance.

Ryan had killed, and it was yet another thing making him different from his peers.

He wasn't worried about his friends. They wouldn't treat him any differently; they would still accept him as he was. Ryan wasn't even worried about the other people, because he didn't care about their opinions.

He was just angry and sad because, once again, he had to deal with the kind of situation most people never had to deal with.

And these thoughts were not helping him unwind.

He rolled over again, hoping to entice sleep that way.

He stretched.

He hugged his pillow.

He discarded the pillow and rolled over again, exasperated that he was still _that_ awake at two in the morning.

He lay still for thirty seconds before giving up.

He was just growing annoyed and even more edgy than he had been. Better accept it; sleep was not in the cards for now.

Ryan went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face in a futile attempt to clear his head.

His eyes fell on his reflection in the mirror, the water going down his face in rivulets. He looked tired and sad, which wasn't surprising. He _felt_ tired and sad.

Ryan had honestly tried to be a normal teenager, doing normal teenagery stuff, but Oliver's death had changed that. Ryan knew that he had lost whatever was left of his childhood when he had pulled that trigger—yet another line he had crossed That Night.

Knowing that he'd done what needed to be done was cold-comfort at best. Ryan would never be able to forget what had happened. But then, perhaps he shouldn't—perhaps he should remember that his habit of rushing to the rescue had cost someone his life. Perhaps he should learn his lessons this time.

Ryan dried off his face, burying it into the newly washed towel, then turned off the light in the bathroom and went back to his bed, eyeing the piece of furniture warily.

He still didn't feel sleepy. He didn't want to read. He didn't want to pace his room until he was tired enough to go back to bed. He didn't feel like listening to music.

He frowned, standing in the middle of the room, then decided to go to the kitchen and fix himself a sandwich. Or cereal. Or a cup warm milk. Or hot chocolate. Or tea.

At this point, Ryan thought, anything would beat standing there like an idiot.

88888

Sandy and Kirsten were half asleep on the couch in front of the TV. When Ryan hesitated in the doorway, Sandy's head shot up.

"Problem sleeping?" Sandy asked.

Ryan nodded.

Sandy patted the couch between Kirsten and him in invitation.

Staying would certainly mean needing to answer or evade a few questions, and Ryan briefly toyed with the idea of just grabbing something to eat and retreating to his room. But if he did that, he would have to go back to the poolhouse, and wait for sleep alone. And, even worse, if he did that, he'd add a few more lines of worry on the Cohens' faces, and they looked worried enough right now.

Making his decision, Ryan sat down between Sandy and Kirsten. For a few minutes, the three of them watched the movie in silence.

"Aren't you tired?" Kirsten finally asked. "You came home more than an hour ago."

Ryan shrugged. "Yeah. I know." She looked at him questioningly, causing him to elaborate. "Can't sleep."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm just… I don't know. Edgy."

"Did something happen at the party?" Kirsten asked.

"No," Ryan said hurriedly.

For a few minutes, the Cohens seemed content to leave it at that. Then, as the movie was interrupted by commercials, Sandy spoke up.

"We didn't ask before, but you're having nightmares, aren't you?"

Ryan shook his head. "I used to. I didn't have one last night. I'm hoping it'll become a new tradition."

Sandy chuckled before turning serious again. "Are they bad?"

"They're usually just about what happened," Ryan answered—which was another way of saying, "Hell yeah."

"Usually?" Sandy repeated.

Ryan fleetingly wondered if this was what therapists sounded like. But Sandy's tone was concerned and gentle, not detached or clinical. "Sometimes, I'm the one who dies," Ryan offered, keeping his tone neutral.

He thought he heard one of the Cohens gasp. He carefully avoided looking at them, focusing on the TV as he finished. "Or Marissa. Or both of us."

Kirsten's arm came to rest on his shoulders. "I wish I was able to take it all away," she said

"I know."

"Me too," Sandy piped in.

Ryan laughed softly. "I know."

He relaxed a little and buried himself deeper in the soft cushions, his eyelids heavy. He didn't make the decision to talk, it just happened. "He realized what happened, you know. Oliver. We were… I looked in his eyes, and he was lucid, at that moment. He knew he was dying. He was surprised, but he knew what was happening."

There was no answer, which suited Ryan just fine.

"And I know that you don't know what to tell me," he added. "And I don't know what to tell you either." He shrugged. "Except that, well, it sucks."

"That it does," Sandy agreed.

His voice sounded far away, Ryan noted.

He heard Kirsten whisper, "He's falling asleep." The comment made Ryan feel like a five-year-old who had insisted to stay up late with the grown-ups and was failing to stay awake, but he lacked the energy to contradict her.

The last thing he felt before sliding into oblivion was a cool hand brushing his hair from his forehead.

88888

Kirsten watched Ryan discreetly as he fell asleep between her and Sandy. She brushed Ryan's hair back from his forehead, pulling away guiltily when Ryan stirred and smiled faintly.

She couldn't remember ever seeing Ryan asleep. He rarely allowed adults near him when he was at his most vulnerable and the fact that he had managed to fall asleep in their presence struck her as meaningful—even if she didn't know in what way.

Was Ryan simply too tired to care anymore? Was it his way of showing the Cohens that he trusted them? Was it both? Was there another reason?

Kirsten shrugged off the questions. It didn't matter. For now, Ryan was safe and, hopefully, he would be able to rest for a few hours. Considering what had happened in the last two weeks, she couldn't reasonably ask for more.

She looked over at Sandy and by unspoken agreement, they stayed silent, waiting for Ryan to fall deeply asleep before laying him down on the couch. Ryan shifted slightly when Kirsten draped a comforter over him and she waited until she was sure she hadn't disturbed him before stroking his hair once more.

Sandy had turned off the television and was waiting for her, a knowing smile on his face.

"What?" Kirsten whispered as they went to their bedroom.

"Nothing," Sandy said, looking more at ease than he had in a while. "Just… is it me or is  
he—?"

"Getting better?" she asked. She closed the door behind her so they could talk without risking awakening Ryan.

Sandy nodded.

"I think so," she said. "But it won't…" She sat on the bed and Sandy joined her, hugging her close. "It'll take some time, you know that, right?" she asked.

She knew that Sandy desperately needed Ryan to be fine. He needed Ryan to go back to what he was two weeks ago, and Kirsten didn't know if it would ever be possible.

Kirsten was a WASP; she had led a privileged life and she had never given much thought to vengeance, death and killing. And then, Seth was born, and the first time she held him in her arms, she found out that the old cliché was true, that she was willing to die or kill to protect her child, that nothing was more important than Seth's well-being. It was obvious, unquestionable.

Until recently, Kirsten had never really thought about what the aftermath of self-defense was. She had always been convinced that she would just do whatever was necessary to protect her loved ones, but she had never thought about what would happen, once everyone was safe and the threat gone.

Could anyone who hadn't been in Ryan's shoes advise him on how to react?

Could anyone who hadn't been in Ryan's shoes truly understand what kind of impact Oliver's death would have on him?

Kirsten seriously doubted it.

She suspected that Ryan was busy kissing goodbye to whatever was left of his childhood. And what's more, she suspected that Sandy knew that, and felt guilty for not keeping the implied promise he had made to Ryan when he had brought him home. "Stay out of trouble, and let us offer you another shot at being young" had been the unspoken bargain, and they had failed to keep up their end of it.

Kirsten recalled Sandy's words a few days earlier—"_He was supposed to be safe_, _here_." She had always known that there were things she couldn't protect her children from, but she had never appreciated being reminded of it.

"I hate having to see them grow up," she said.

Sandy didn't react for a while. As Kirsten was concluding that he must have fallen asleep, he said, "Let's just lock them up in a room. We live in a huge mansion; we can find a secret room somewhere, where they'll be safe. They'll get out when we die, that way we won't have to be scared to death for them anymore."

She smiled. "That's a plan," she said.

"Yeah."

Holding on to each other, they waited for sleep.


	12. Epilogue

Title : Small Steps

Author : Helen C.

Rating : PG - 13

Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.

Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to _The Rainy Day Women_ is fair game.

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Undying gratitude to my beta, Joey51, for her advice and her kind words and the time she spent working on this!

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**Epilogue**

Seth and Ryan sat in the kitchen, trying to convince themselves that the end of Spring Break wasn't as great a tragedy as, say, the end of the world. They were only moderately successful.

Characteristically, Ryan was psyching himself up in silence, resigned to his fate.

Uncharacteristically, Seth was equally silent as he stared gloomily at his orange juice.

Seth finally broke the silence, saying in a subdued tone, "This is it, I guess."

Ryan nodded, finding his friend's unusual quietness both entertaining and unnerving. He was relieved that Seth was finally beginning to speak. Ryan may complain abundantly about Seth's chatter, but he had grown used to it, and often found himself relying on it when he was tense and needed something to distract him.

"The time when the holiday ends," Seth added.

"We knew it was going to happen eventually," Ryan pointed out helpfully.

Seth glared at him—at least, Ryan assumed that was what his friend was trying to do, since Seth looked more depressed than angry.

Ryan smiled encouragingly. "Look at it this way," he said. "In two months, we get a two month reprieve from high school."

Seth brightened. "And then, senior year, which is supposed to rock," he said.

Ryan didn't voice his doubts about that. He was sure fate would find a way to screw it up for him, and even if fate didn't intervene, Ryan was more than able to find trouble on his own.

Seth, however, seemed a lot more confident. "That'll be cool."

Ryan half-shrugged, pleased that his friend seemed more upbeat.

Ryan didn't truly dread school, and he never had. It wasn't fun, but it was bearable. He had always considered it as one of those things he just had to wait out, like indigestion or a bad cold, except there wasn't a remedy to soothe the effects of school.

That said, he was more nervous than usual. Marissa would be there, and she would be either needy or apologetic, and maybe even both at once. And there would be the same sideways glances Ryan had already noticed at the party. Newport's rumor mill was an impressive thing. There probably wasn't anyone in town who didn't know what had happened between Oliver and The Boy From Chino, as some people still called him. And if there was someone at school who didn't know, they would soon be filled in.

Ryan didn't anticipate true problems. While there were students who resented him, most of them didn't actually harass Ryan. He tended to keep his head down and stay as unnoticeable as he could, and the other kids at school were content to ignore him back and keep their venom for other targets. Besides, most of these kids didn't know how far they could push Ryan, and weren't eager to find out. During his first months at Harbor, Ryan had heard a lot of rumors about what his life had been like in Chino, most of them bordering on the ridiculous, and he had never done anything to deny them. Let the Harbor kids think he had put someone in a coma during a fight; that would make them think twice before they attacked him.

Of course, that kind of thought wasn't even remotely amusing anymore now.

Yet another thing that Oliver's death had changed, and Ryan wondered how many other things had changed in his life without him noticing.

"You know," Seth said, "I've often overheard my parents saying that they should just lock me up until I'm old, so they won't have to worry about me. And I've got to tell you, on a day like this, I wouldn't mind."

Ryan bit back a smile. "By 'overheard,' I assume you meant, 'eavesdropped?'" he asked.

Seth looked at Ryan too innocently to be sincere. "Who, me?"

Ryan shook his head. "They probably wouldn't let you out for the concerts or the comic book conventions, let alone the parties," he pointed out. "After all, it's where we always end up in trouble…"

Sandy and Kirsten entered the kitchen, causing Seth and Ryan to stop talking. Better not give the Cohens any ideas.

"Ready to go?" Sandy asked, patting Seth's head.

Again, Seth tried to glare, and again, he just looked like a kid who had been denied his dessert and sent to bed early. Ryan almost expected him to ask in a whiny five-year-old voice, "Do we have to go?" but Seth managed to restrain himself. Ryan couldn't help being impressed.

Kirsten smiled gently. "Be nice, Sandy," she said. "Remember how high school was."

Sandy tried to look contrite, but didn't quite pull it off.

Ryan yawned and hung his head self-consciously when he felt Kirsten's gaze fall on him. He knew he looked exhausted, despite the fact that he had slept seven hours the previous night.

"Are you all right?" Kirsten asked.

Ryan bit back the, "If only I'd had a penny each time you've asked me that," that wanted to escape. Snapping at Kirsten or Sandy after they'd been so incredibly supportive would only make Ryan feel ten times worse. "Yeah," he said.

"Perhaps you should stay home for a few more days," Kirsten suggested.

Seth's head shot up, his eyes wide. He caught Ryan's gaze and shook his head frantically. Ryan smiled. "No, it'll be fine," he said. The idea was tempting, but he knew that the longer he waited to go back to school, the worse it would be. Besides, Seth obviously counted on Ryan for back up as much as Ryan counted on Seth for support.

"Are you sure?" Sandy asked. "It's not every day we make offers like that, you know."

Ryan snorted. "Right," he said. "I'll be fine, really. And finals are—"

Seth cut him off, waving his arms extravagantly. "No, no, do not say the 'f' word, please. You never know what might happen."

Ryan, Kirsten and Sandy looked at Seth, who nodded seriously. "You never know," he insisted.

Ryan got up. "I guess we should go," he said, trying to look enthusiastic and, he could tell from the look on Kirsten's face, failing miserably.

For a brief moment, she looked like she was about to say something, but she kept quiet. Ryan was glad she didn't reiterate her offer to stay home. He wasn't sure he would have turned her down a second time if she had asked.

"Well, come on, I'll drive you boys," Sandy said, grabbing his keys and making a beeline for the door.

Ryan looked at Seth, who shrugged and downed the last of his orange juice.

Ryan put his dishes in the sink and shouldered his backpack, pausing when Kirsten caught his arm. "If you want to leave early, call me, I'll come get you," she said.

He nodded gratefully, warmed by her concern, and left the kitchen, Seth on his heels.

At least, he thought as he made his way to the car, he'd had a few weeks to come to terms with Oliver's death. He may not be back to normal, but he certainly felt more balanced than he had at the beginning of the holiday.

He had spent a lot of time wondering what else he could have done, and he had reached the tentative conclusion that, while he should have called the police or Sandy instead of entering the house on his own, what had happened after he had entered had been unavoidable.

He had taken the only chance he had seen to tackle Oliver, and if Ryan hadn't shot, he would probably have ended up hurt, or worse. And what would have happened to Marissa then? Oliver had been pretty set on killing her.

He didn't like what he had done, but if he was put in the same situation again today, he wasn't sure he'd act differently. He would maybe, probably, call someone first. But he wasn't even sure he'd be able to wait outside, not knowing what was happening inside.

Besides, he reflected, there was still a possibility that the police wouldn't have come simply because a seventeen-year-old told them he had a bad feeling.

"Dude?" Seth asked, waving his hand in front of Ryan's face. Ryan startled and focused on Seth.

"Yeah?"

"You spaced out for a second, there."

Ryan noticed that they had reached the car, and that Sandy was watching him worriedly from behind the wheel.

"Thinking," Ryan told Seth, shooting an apologetic smile at Sandy and getting in the backseat.

When Sandy looked at him in the rear-view mirror, Ryan mentally begged him not to ask if everything was fine. Sandy seemed to hear the unspoken plea and started the car.

As they were going down the driveway, Seth began telling Ryan about Summer, and how wonderful this holiday had been as far as their relationship was concerned, and how he hoped school wouldn't be awkward—"well, it'll be, because it's school, but you know, there's awkward, and then there's _awkward_. Right?"

Ryan smiled and nodded, thinking that today would probably rate very high on the scale of awkward first days. "Right," he said, leaning over as Seth resumed talking, and never noticing when the house that had been his refuge from the world for the last two weeks dropped out of sight.

END

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Huge thanks to everyone who took the time to review! 


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